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a  I   ' . 
11111 


UN!VE'-SITY  OF 
CA-.PORNIA 
SAN  DIK6O 


52 1  i. 


PEG  "WOFFINGTON, 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE, 


AND    OTHER   STORIES. 


BY 


CHARLES     READE. 


HOUSEHOLD  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 
FIELDS,     OSGOOD,    &     CO., 

SUCCESSORS   TO   TICKNOR    AND   FIELDS. 
1869. 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
PEG  WOFFINGTON 5 

CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE    .        .        .        ...        .        .        .97 

CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE 185 

ART  :  A  DRAMATIC  TALE 231 

PROPRIA  QU^E  MARIBUS 267 

THE  Box  TUNNEL 295 

JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES 303 


PEG    WOFFINGTON 


A     NOVEL. 


TO 

T.    TAYLOR,    ESQ., 

MY   FRIEND,   AND   COADJUTOR  IN   THE   COMEDY   OP 

"MASKS  AND  FACES," 

TO  WHOM  THE  HEADER  OWES  MUCH  OP  THE  BEST  MATTER  IN   THIS   TALE  1 

AND 

TO   THE   MEMORY   OF  MARGARET  WOFFINGTON, 
FALSELY  summed  up  UNTIL  TO-DAY, 

THIS 

" dramatic  Stars" 

IS  INSCRIBED  BY 

i 

CHARLES  KEADE. 

LONDON,  December  15,  1852. 


PEG   WOFFINGTON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  the  last 
century,  at  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  in  a  large  but  poor  apartment, 
a  man  was  slumbering  on  a  rough 
couch.  His  rusty  and  worn  suit  of 
black  was  of  a  piece  with  his  uncarpet- 
ed  room,  the  deal  table  of  home  manu- 
facture, and  its  slim  unsnuffed  candle. 

The  man  was  Triplet,  scene  paint- 
er, actor,  and  writer  of  sanguinary 
plays,  in  which  what  ought  to  be,  viz. 
truth,  plot,  situation,  and  dialogue, 
were  not ;  and  what  ought  not  to  be, 
were  :  scilicet,  small  talk,  big  talk,  fops, 
ruffians,  and  ghosts. 

His  three  mediocrities  fell  so  short 
of  one  talent,  that  he  was  sometimes 
impransus. 

He  slumbered,  but  uneasily;  the 
dramatic  author  was  uppermost,  and 
his  "  Demon  of  the  Hayloft "  hung 
upon  the  thread  of  popular  favor. 

On  his  uneasy  slumber  entered  from 
the  theatre  Mrs.  Triplet. 

She  was  a  lady  who  in  one  respect 
fell  behind  her  husband ;  she  lacked 
his  variety  in  ill-doing,  but  she  re- 
covered herself  by  doing  her  one  thing 
a  shade  worse  than  he  did  any  of  his 
three.  She  was  what  is  called  in  grim 
sport  an  actress ;  she  had  just  cast  her 
mite  of  discredit  on  royalty  by  playing 
the  Queen,  and  had  trundled  home 
the  moment  the  breath  was  out  of  her 
royal  body.  She  came  in  rotatory 
with  fatigue,  and  fell,  gristle,  into  a 
chair ;  she  wrenched  from  her  brow 
a  diadem  and  eyed  it  with  contempt, 
took  from  her  pocket  a  sausage,  and 
1* 


contemplated  it  with  respect  and  affec- 
tion, placed  it  in  a  frying-pan  on  the 
fire,  and  entered  her  bedroom,  mean- 
ing to  don  a  loose  wrapper,  and  de- 
throne herself  into  comfort. 

But  the  poor  woman  was  shot  walk- 
ing by  Morpheus,  and  subsided  alto- 
gether; for  dramatic  performances, 
amusing  and  exciting  to  youth  seated 
in  the  pit,  convey  a  certain  weariness 
to  those  bright  beings  who  sparkle 
on  the  stage  for  bread  and  cheese. 

Royalty,  disposed  of,  still  left  its 
trail  of  events.  The  sausage  began 
to  "  spit."  The  sound  was  hardly 
out  of  its  body,  when  poor  Triplet 
writhed  like  a  worm  on  a  hook. 
"  Spitter,  spittest,"  went  the  sausage. 
Triplet  groaned,  and  at  last  his  in- 
articulate murmurs  became  words  : 
"  That 's  right,  pit,  now  that  is  so 
reasonable  to  condemn  a  poor  fellow's 
play  before  you  have  heard  it  out." 
Then,  with  a  change  of  tone,  "  Tom," 
muttered  he,  "they  are  losing  their 
respect  for  spectres ;  if  they  do,  hun- 
ger will  make  a  ghost  of  me."  Next, 
he  fancied  the  clown  or  somebody  had 
got  into  his  ghost's  costume. 

"  Dear,"  said  the  poor  dreamer, 
"  the  clown  makes  a  very  pretty  spec- 
tre, with  his  ghastly  white  face,  and 
his  blood-boltered  cheeks  and  nose. 
I  never  saw  the  fun  of  a  clown  before, 
no  !  no !  no !  it  is  not  the  clown,  it  is 
worse,  much  worse  ;  0  dear,  ugh ! " 
and  Triplet  rolled  off  the  couch  like 
Richard  the  Third.  He  sat  a  moment 
on  the  floor,  with  a  finger  in  each  eye ; 
and  then,  finding  he  was  neither  daub- 
ing, ranting,  nor  deluging  earth  with 


10 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


"  acts,"  he  accused  himself  of  indo- 
lence, and  sat  down  to  write  a  small 
tale  of  blood  and  bombast;  he  took  his 
seat  at  the  dealtablewith  some  alacrity, 
for  he  had  recently  made  a  discovery. 

How  to  write  well,  rien  que  cda. 

"  First,  think  in  as  homely  a  way 
as  you  can  ;  next,  shove  your  pen  un- 
der the  thought,  and  lift  it  by  poly- 
syllables to  the  true  level  of  fiction  " ; 

TRIPLET'S  FACTS. 
A  farthing  dip  is  on  the  table. 
It  wants  snuffing. 
He  jumped  up,  and  snuffed  it  with 


(when  done,  find  a  publisher  —  if  you 
can).  "  This,"  said  Triplet,  "  insures 
common  sense  to  your  ideas,  which 
does  pretty  well  for  a  basis,"  said 
Triplet,  apologetically,  "  and  elegance 
to  the  dress  they  wear."  Triplet, 
then  casting  his  eyes  round  in  search 
of  such  actual  circumstances  as  could 
be  incorporated  on  this  plan  with  fic- 
tion, began  to  work  thus  :  — 

TRIPLET'S  FICTIOK. 

A  solitary  candle  cast  its  pale  gleams 
around. 

Its  elongated  wick  betrayed  an  own- 
er steeped  in  oblivion. 

He  rose  languidly,  and  trimmed  it 


his  fingers.     Burned  his  fingers,  and   with  an  instrument  that  he  had  by  his 
swore  a  little.  side  for  that  purpose,  and  muttered  a 

silent  ejaculation. 


Before,  however,  the  mole  Triplet 
could  undermine  literature  and  level 
it  with  the  dust,  various  interruptions 
and  divisions  broke  in  upon  his  de- 
sign, and  sic  nos  servavit  Apollo.  As 
he  wrote  the  last  sentence,  a  loud  rap 
came  to  his  door.  A  servant  in  livery 
brought  him  a  note  from  Mr.  Vane, 
dated  Covent  Garden.  Triplet's  eyes 
sparkled,  he  bustled,  wormed  himself 
into  a  less  rusty  coat,  and  started  off 
to  the  Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Gar- 
den. 

In  those  days,  the  artists  of  the  pen 
and  the  brush  ferreted  patrons,  instead 
of  aiming  to  be  indispensable  to  the 
public,  the  only  patron  worth  a  single 
gesture  of  the  quill. 

Mr.  Vane  had  conversed  with  Trip- 
let, that  is,  let  Triplet  talk  to  him  in 
a  coffee-house,  and  Triplet,  the  most 
sanguine  of  unfortunate  men,  had  al- 
ready built  a  series  of  expectations 
upon  that  interview,  when  this  note 
arrived.  Leaving  him  on  his  road 
from  Lambeth  to  Covent  Garden,  we 
must  introduce  more  important  per- 
sonnges. 

Mr.  Vane  was  a  wealthy  gentleman 
from  Shropshire,  whom  business  had 
called  to  London  four  months  ago, 
and  uow  pleasure  detained.  Business 


still  occupied  the  letters  he  sent  now 
and  then  to  his  native  county ;  but  it 
had  ceased  to  occupy  the  writer.  He 
was  a  man  of  learning  and  taste,  as 
times  went ;  and  his  love  of  the  Arts 
had  taken  him  some  time  before  our 
tale  to  the  theatres,  then  the  resort  of 
all  who  pretended  to  taste ;  and  it 
was  thus  he  had  become  fascinated 
by  Mrs.  Woffington,  a  lady  of  great 
beauty,  and  a  comedian  high  in  favor 
with  the  town. 

The  first  night  he  saw  her  was  an 
epoch  in  the  history  of  this  gentle- 
man's mind.  He  had  learning  and 
refinement,  and  he  had  not  great 
practical  experience,  and  such  men 
are  most  open  to  impression  from  the 
stage.  He  saw  a  being,  all  grace  and 
bright  nature,  move  like  a  goddess 
among  the  stiff  puppets  of  the  scene ; 
her  glee  and  her  pathos  were  equally 
catching,  she  held  a  golden  key  at 
which  all  the  doors  of  the  heart  flew 
open.  Her  face,  too,  was  as  full  of 
goodness  as  intelligence,  —  it  was  like 
no  other  face;  the  heart  bounded  to 
meet  it. 

He  rented  a  box  at  her  theatre. 
He  was  there  every  night  before  the 
curtain  drew  up ;  and,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  he  at  last  took  half  a  dislike  to 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


11 


Sunday, — Sunday  "which  knits  up 
the  ravelled  sleave  of  care,"  Sunday 
"'tired  nature's  sweet  restorer,"  be- 
cause on  Sunday  there  was  no  Peg 
Woffington.  At  first  he  regarded 
her  as  a  heing  of  another  sphere,  an 
incarnation  of  poetry  and  art ;  but  by 
degrees  his  secret  aspirations  became 
bolder.  She  was  a  woman ;  •  there 
were  men  who  knew  her;  some  of 
them  inferior  to  him  in  position,  and, 
he  flattered  himself,  in  mind.  He  had 
even  heard  a  tale  against  her  charac- 
ter. To  him  her  face  was  its  confuta- 
tion, and  he  knew  how  loose-tongued 
is  calumny ;  but  still  — ! 

At  last,  one  day  he  sent  her  a  let- 
ter, unsigned.  This  letter  expressed 
his  admiration  of  her  talent  in  warm 
but  respectful  terms ;  the  writer  told 
her  it  had  become  necessary  to  his 
heart  to  return  her  in  some  way  his 
thanks  for  the  land  of  enchantment  to 
which  she  had  introduced  him.  Soon 
after  this,  choice  flowers  found  their 
way  to  her  dressing-room  every  night, 
and  now  and  then  verses  and  precious 
^stones  mingled  with  her  roses  and 
eglantine.  And  0,  how  he  watched 
the  great  actress's  eye  all  the  night ; 
how  he  tried  to  discover  whether  she 
looked  oftener  towards  his  box  than 
the  corresponding  box  on  the  other 
side  of  the  house. 

Did  she  notice  him,  or  did  she  not  ? 
What  a  point  gained,  if  she  was  con- 
scious of  his  nightly  attendance :  she 
would  feel  he  was  a  friend,  not  a  mere 
auditor.  He  was  jealous  of  the  pit, 
on  whom  Mrs.  Woffington  lavished 
her  smiles  without  measure. 

At  last,  one  day  he  sent  her  a  wreath 
of  flowers,  and  implored  her,  if  any 
word  he  had  said  to  her  had'  pleased 
or  interested  her,  to  wear  this  wreath 
that  night.  After  he  had  done  this 
he  trembled ;  he  had  courted  a  decis- 
ion, when,  perhaps,  his  safety  lay  in 
patience  and  time.  She  made  her 
entree ;  he  turned  cold  as  she  glided 
into  sight  from  the  prompter's  side ; 
he  raised  his  eyes  slowly  and  fearfully 
from  her  feet  to  her  head ;  her  head  was 
bare,  wreathed  only  by  its  own  rich 


glossy  honors.  "  Fool !  "  thought 
he,  "  to  think  she  would  hang  frivoli- 
ties upon  that  glorious  head  for  me." 
Yet  his  disappointment  told  him  he 
had  really  hoped  it ;  he  would  not 
have  sat  out  the  play  but  for  a  lead- 
en incapacity  of  motion  that  seized 
him. 

The  curtain  drew  up  for  the  fifth 
act,  and  —  could  he  believe  his  eyes  ? 
—  Mrs.  Woflington  stood  upon  the 
stage  with  his  wreath  upon  her  grace- 
ful head.  She  took  away  his  breath. 
She  spoke  the  epilogue,  and,  as  the 
curtain  fell,  she  lifted  her  eyes,  he 
thought,  to  his  box,  and  made  him 
a  distinct,  queen-like  courtesy;  his 
heart  fluttered  to  his  mouth,  and  he 
walked  home  on  wings  and  tiptoe. 
In  short  — 

Mrs.  Woffington,  as  an  actress,  jus- 
tified a  portion  of  this  enthusiasm ; 
she  was  one  of  the  truest  artists  of 
her  day ;  a  fine  lady  in  her  hands  was 
a  lady,  with  the  genteel  affectation  of 
a  gentlewoman,  not  a  harlot's  affecta- 
tion, which  is  simply  and  without  ex- 
aggeration what  the  stage  commonly 
gives  us  for  a  fine  lady ;  an  old  wo- 
man in  her  hands  was  a  thorough 
woman,  thoroughly  old,  not  a  cack- 
ling young  person  of  epicene  gender. 
She  played  Sir  Harry  Wildair  like  a 
man,  which  is  how  he  ought  to  be 
played  (or,  which  is  better  still,  not 
at  all),  so  that  Garrick  acknowledged 
her  as  a  male  rival,  and  abandoned 
the  part  he  no  longer  monopolized. 

Now  it  very,  very  rarely  happens 
that  a  woman  of  her  age  is  high 
enough  in  art  and  knowledge  to  do 
these  things.  In  players,  vanity  crip- 
ples art  at  every  step.  The  young 
actress  who  is  not  a  AVoffington  aims 
to  display  herself  by  means  of  her 
part,  which  is  vanity ;  not  to  raise 
her  part  by  sinking  herself  in  it,  which 
is  art.  It  has  been  my  misfortune  to 

see ,  and ,  and ,  and , 

et  ceteras,  play  the  man ;  Nature,  for- 
give them,  if  you  can,  for  art  never 
will ;  they  never  reached  any  idea 
more  manly  than  a  steady  resolve  to 
exhibit  the  points  of  a  woman  with 


12 


PEG  WOFFDsGTON. 


greater  ferocity  than  they  could  in  a 
gown.  But  consider,  ladies,  a  man  is 
not  the  meanest  of  the  brute  creation, 
so  how  can  he  be  an  unwomanly  fe- 
male ?  This  sort  of  actress  aims  not 
to  give  her  author's  creation  to  the 
public,  but  to  trot  out  the  person  in- 
stead of  the  creation,  and  shows  sots 
what  a  calf  it  has  —  and  is. 

Vanity,  vanity  !  all  is  vanity  ! 
Mesdames  les  Charlatanes. 

Margaret  Womngton  was  of  anoth- 
er mould;  she  played  the  ladies  of 
high  comedy  with  grace,  distinction, 
and  delicacy.  But  in  Sir  Harry 
Wildair  she  parted  with  a  woman's 
mincing  foot  and  tongue,  and  played 
the  man  in  a  style  large,  spirited, 
and  elancf.  As  Mrs.  Day  (com- 
mittee) she  painted  wrinkles  on  her 
lovely  face  so  honestly  that  she  was 
taken  for  threescore,  and  she  carried 
out  the  design  with  voice  and  person, 
and  did  a  vulgar  old  woman  to  the 
life.  She  disfigured  her  own  beauties 
to  show  the  beauty  of  her  art;  in  a 
word,  she  was  an  artist!  It  does  not 
follow  she  was  the  greatest  artist  that 
ever  breathed ;  far  from  it.  Mr. 
Vane  was  carried  to  this  notion  by 
passion  and  ignorance. 

On  the  evening  of  our  tale  he  was 
at  his  post  patiently  sitting  out  one 
of  those  sanguinary  discourses  our 
rude  forefathers  thought  were  tragic 
plays.  Sedet  (eternumque  Sedebit  In- 
felix  Theseus,  because  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton  is  to  speak  the  epilogue. 

These  epilogues  were  curiosities 
of  the  human  mind ;  they  whom, 
just  to  ourselves  and  them,  we  call 
our  forbears,  had  an  idea  their  blood 
and  bombast  were  not  ridiculous 
enough  in  themselves,  so  when  the 
curtain  had  fallen  on  the  debris  of  the 
dramatis  persona,  and  of  common 
sense,  they  sent  on  an  actress  to  turn 
all  the  sentiment  so  laboriously  ac- 
quired into  a  jest. 

To  insist  that  nothing  good  or 
beautiful  shall  be  carried  safe  from  a 
play  out  into  the  street  was  the  big- 
otry of  English  horse-play.  Was  a 
Lucretia  the  heroine  of  the  tragedy, 


she  was  careful  in  the  epilogue  to 
speak  like  Messalina.  Did  a  king's 
mistress  come  to  hunger  and  repent- 
ance, she  disinfected  all  the  pctites 
mattresses  in  the  house  of  the  moral, 
by  assuring  them  that  sin  is  a  joke, 
repentance  a  greater,  and  that  she 
individually  was  ready  for  cither  if 
they  would  but  cry,  laugh,  and  pay. 
Then  the  audience  used  to  laugh, 
and  if  they  did  not,  lo  !  the  manager, 
actor,  and  author  of  heroic  tragedy 
were  exceeding  sorrowful. 

Whilst  sitting  attendance  on  the 
epilogue,  Mr.  Vane  had  nothing  to 
distract  him  from  the  congregation 
but  a  sanguinary  sermon  in  fi ve  heads, 
so  his  eyes  roved  over  the  pews,  and 
presently  he  became  aware  of  a  famil- 
iar face  watching  him  closely.  The 
gentleman  to  whom  it  belonged  find- 
ing himself  recognized  left  his  seat, 
and  a  minute  later  Sir  Charles  Po- 
mander entered  Mr.  Vane's  box. 

This  Sir  Charles  Pomander  was  a 
gentleman  of  vice :  pleasure  he  called 
it.  Mr.  Vane  had  made  his  acquaint- 
ance two  years  ago  in  Shropshire. 
Sir  Charles,  who  husbanded  every- 
thing except  his  soul,  had  turned  him- 
self out  to  grass  for  a  month.  His 
object  was,  by  roast  mutton,  bread 
with  some  little  flour  in  it,  air,  water, 
temperance,  chastity,  and  peace,  to  be 
enabled  to  take  a  deeper  plunge  into 
impurities  of  food  and  morals. 

A  few  nights  ago,  unseen  by  Mr. 
Vane,  he  had  observed  him  in  the 
theatre ;  an  ordinary  man  would 
have  gone  at  once  and  shaken  hands 
with  him,  but  this  was  not  an  ordi- 
nary man,  this  was  a  diplomatist. 
First  of  all,  he  said  to  himself : 
"  What  is  this  man  doing  here  ?  " 
Then  he  soon  discovered  this  man 
must  be  in  love  with  some  actress  ; 
then  it  became  his  business  to  know 
who  she  -was ;  this  too  soon  betrayed 
itself.  Then  it  became  more  than 
ever  Sir  Charles's  business  to  know 
whether  Mrs.  Woflfington  returned 
the  sentiment;  and  here  his  penetra- 
tion was  at  fault,  for  the  moment ; 
he  determined,  however,  to  discover. 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


Mr.  Vane  then  received  his  friend, 
all  unsuspicious  how  that  friend  had 
been  skinning  him  with  his  eyes  for 
some  time  past.  After  the  usual 
compliments  had  passed  between  two 
gentlemen  who  had  been  hand  and 
glove  for  a  month  and  forgotten  each 
other's  existence  for  two  years,  Sir 
Charles,  still  keeping  in  view  his  de- 
sign, said  :  — 

"  Let  us  go  upon  the  stage,"  The 
fourth  act  had  just  concluded. 

"  Go  upon  the  stage ! "  said  Mr. 
Vane;  "  what,  where  she  —  I  mean 
among  the  actors  ?  " 

"  Yes  :  come  into  the  green-room. 
There  are  one  or  two  people  of  repu- 
tation there ;  I  will  introduce  you  to 
them,  if  you  please." 

"  Go  upon  the  stage  !  "  why,  if  it 
had  been  proposed  to  him  to  go  to 
heaven  he  would  not  have  been  more 
astonished.  He  was  too  astonished 
at  first  to  realize  the  full  beauty  of 
the  arrangement,  by  means  of  which 
he  might  be  within  a  yard  of  Mrs. 
Woffington,  might  feel  her  dress  rus- 
tic past  him,  might  speak  to  her, 
might  drink  her  voice  fresh  from  her 
lips  almost  before  it  mingled  with 
meaner  air.  Silence  gives  consent, 
and  Mr.  Vane,  though  he  thought  a 
great  deal,  said  nothing  ;  so  Poman- 
des  rose,  and  they  left  the  boxes  to- 
gether. He  led  the  way  to  the  stage 
door,  which  was  opened  obsequiously 
to  him  ;  they  then  passed  through  a 
dismal  passage,  and  suddenly  emerged 
upon  that  scene  of  enchantment, 
the  stage,  —  a  dirty  platform  en- 
cumbered on  all  sides  with  piles  of 
scenery  in  flats.  They  threaded  their 
way  through  rusty  velvet  actors  and 
fustian  carpenters,  and  entered  the 
green-room.  At  the  door  of  this 
magic  chamber  Vane  trembled  and 
halt'  wished  he  could  retire.  They 
entered ;  his  apprehension  gave  way 
to  disappointment,  she  was  not  there. 
Collecting  himself,  he  was  presently 
introduced  to  a  smart,  jaunty,  and,  to 
do  him  justice,  distingutf  old  beau. 
This  was  Collcy  Gibber,  Esq.,  poet 
laureate,  and  retired  actor  and  drama- 


tist, a  gentleman  who  is  entitled  to  a 
word  or  two. 

This  Gibber  was  the  only  actor 
since  Shakespeare's  time  who  had 
both  acted  and  written  well.  Pope's 
personal  resentment  misleads  the 
reader  of  English  poetry  as  to  Gib- 
ber's real  place  among  the  wits  of  the 
day. 

The  man's  talent  was  dramatic,  not 
didactic,  or  epic,  or  pastoral.  Pope 
was  not  so  deep  in  the  drama  as  in  oth- 
er matters,  and  Gibber  was  one  of  its 
luminaries ;  he  wrote  some  of  the 
best  comedies  of  his  day.  He  also 
succeeded  where  Dryden,  for  lack  of 
true  dramatic  taste,  tailed.  He  tam- 
pered successfully  with  Shakespeare. 
Colley  Gibber's  version  of  "  Richard 
the  Third  "  is  impudent  and  slightly 
larcenic,  but  it  is  marvellously  effect- 
ive. It  has  stood  a  century,  and 
probably  will  stand  forever ;  and  the 
most  admired  passages  in  what  liter- 
ary humbugs  who  pretend  they  know 
Shakespeare  by  the  closet,  not  the 
stage,  accept  as  Shakespeare's  "  Rich- 
ard," are  Gibber's. 

Mr.  Gibber  was  now  in  private  life, 
a  mild  edition  of  his  own  Lord  Fop- 
pington ;  he  had  none  of  the  snob-fop 
as  represented  on  our  conventional 
stage;  nobody  ever  had,  and  lived. 
He  was  in  tolerably  good  taste  ;  but 
he  went  ever  gold-laced,  highly  pow- 
dered, scented,  and  diamonded,  dis- 
pensing graceful  bows,  praises  of  who- 
ever had  the  good  luck  to  be  dead,  and 
satire  of  all  who  were  here  to  enjoy 
it. 

Mr.  Vane,  to  whom  the  drama  had 
now  become  the  golden  branch  of  let- 
ters, looked  with  some  awe  on  this 
veteran,  for  he  had  seen  many  Wof- 
fingtons.  He  fell  soon  upon  the  sub- 
ject nearest  his  heart.  He  asked  Mr. 
Gibber  what  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington. The  old  gentleman  thought 
well  of  the  young  lady's  talent,  espe- 
cially her  comedy ;  in  tragedy,  said  he, 
she  imitates  Mademoiselle  Dumcsnil, 
of  the  Theatre  Francais,  and  con- 
founds the  stage  rhetorician  with  the 
actress.  The  next  question  was  not 


14 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


so  fortunate.  "  Did  you  ever  see  so 
great  and  true  an  actress  upon  the 
whole  ? " 

Mr.  Gibber  opened  his  eyes^  a 
slight  flush  came  into  his  wash-leath- 
er face,  and  he  replied  :  "  I  have  not 
only  seen  many  equal,  many  superior 
to  her,  but  I  "have  seen  some  half- 
dozen  who  would  have  eaten  her  up 
and  spit  her  out  again,  and  not  known 
they  had  done  anything  out  of  the 
wav." 

Here  Pomander  soothed  the  veter- 
an's dudgeon  by  explaining  in  dulcet 
tones  that  his  friend  was  not  long 
from  Shropshire,  and —  The  critic 
interrupted  him,  and  bade  him  not 
dilute  the  excuse. 

Now  Mr.  Vane  had  as  much  to  say 
as  either  of  them,  but  he  had  not  the 
habit,  which  dramatic  folks  have,  of 
carrying  his  whole  bank  in  his  cheek- 
pocket,  so  they  quenched  him  for  two 
mimites.  But  lovers  arc  not  silenced, 
he  soon  returned  to  the  attack ;  he 
dwelt  on  the  grace,  the  ease,  the  fresh- 
ness, the  intelligence,  the  universal 
beauty  of  Mrs.  Woffington.  Poman- 
der sneered,  to  draw  him  out.  Gibber 
smiled,  with  good-natured  superiority. 
This  nettled  the  young  gentleman,  he 
fired  up,  his  handsome  countenance 
glowed,  he  turned  Demosthenes  for 
her  he  loved.  One  advantage  he  had 
over  both  Gibber  and  Pomander,  a 
fair  stock  of  classical  learning;  on 
this  he  now  drew. 

"  Other  actors  and  actresses,"  said 
he,  "are  monotonous  in  voice,  monot- 
onous in  action,  but  Mrs.  "Woffington's 
delivery  has  the  compass  and  variety 
of  nature,  and  her  movements  are  free 
from  the  stale  uniformity  that  dis- 
tinguishes artifice  from  art.  The 
others  seem  to  me  to  have  but  two 
dreams  of  grace,  a  sort  of  crawling  on 
stilts  is  their  motion,  and  an  angular 
stiffness  their  repose."  He  then  cited 
the  most  famous  statues  of  antiquity, 
and  quoted  situations  in  plays  where, 
bv  her  fine  dramatic  instinct,  Mrs. 
"yVoffington,  he  said,  threw  her  person 
into  postures  similar  to  these,  and  of 
equal  beauty ;  not  that  she  strikes  at- 


titudes like  the  rest,  but  she  melts  from 
one  beautiful  statue  into  another;  and, 
if  sculptors  could  gather  from  her  im- 
mortal graces,  painters  too  might  take 
from  her  face  the  beauties  that  belong 
of  right  to  passion  and  thought,  and 
orators  might  revive  their  withered 
art,  and  learn  from  those  golden  lips 
the  music  of  old  Athens,  that  quelled 
tempestuous  mobs,  and  princes  drunk 
with  victory. 

Much  as  this  was,  he  was  going  to 
say  more,  ever  so  much  more,  but  he 
became  conscious  of  a  singular  sort  of 
grin  upon  every  face ;  this  grin  made 
him  turn  rapidly  round  to  look  for  its 
cause.  It  explained  itself  at  once;  at 
his  very  elbow  was  a  lady,  whom  his 
heart  recognized,  though  her  back  was 
turned  to  him.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
rich  silk  gown,  pearl  white,  with  flow- 
ers and  sprigs  embroidered ;  her  beau- 
tiful white  neck  and  arms  were  bare. 
She  was  sweeping  up  the  room  with 
the  epilogue  in  her  hand,  learning  it 
off  by  heart ;  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  she  turned,  and  now  she  shone 
full  upon  him. 

It  certainly  was  a  dazzling  creature : 
she  had  a  head  of  beautiful  form, 
perched  like  a  bird  upon  a  throat  mas- 
sive yet  shapely  and  smooth  as  a  col- 
umn of  alabaster,  a  symmetrical  brow, 
black  eyes  full  of  fire  and  tenderness, 
a  delicious  mouth,  with  a  hundred 
varying  expressions,  and  that  mar- 
vellous faculty  of  giving  beauty  alike 
to  love  or  scorn,  a  sneer  or  a  smile. 
But  she  had  one  feature  more  remark- 
able than  all,  her  eyebrows,  —  the 
actor's  feature ;  they  were  jet  black, 
strongly  marked,  and  in  repose  were 
arched  like  a  rainbow ;  but  it  was 
their  extraordinary  flexibility  which 
made  other  faces  upon  the  stage  look 
sleepy  beside  Margaret  Woffington's. 
In  person  she  was  considerably  above 
the  middle  height,  and  so  finely  formed 
that  one  could  not  determine  the 
exact  character  of  her  figure.  At 
one  time  it  seemed  all  statcliness, 
at  another  time  elegance  personi- 
fied, and  flowing  voluptuousness  at 
another.  She  was  Juno,  Psyche,  Hebe, 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


15 


by  turns,  and  for  aught  we  know  at 
will. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  a  sort  of 
halo  of  personal  grandeur  surrounds 
a  great  actress.  A  scene  is  set;  half 
a  dozen  nobodies  are  there  lost  in  it, 
because  they  are  and  seem  lumps  of 
nothing.  The  great  artist  steps  upon 
that  scene,  and  how  she  fills  it  in  a 
moment !  Mind  and  majesty  wait 
upon  her  in  the  air ;  her  person  is  lost 
in  the  greatness  of  her  personal  pres- 
ence ;  she  dilates  with  thought,  and  a 
stupid  giantess  looks  a  dwarf  beside 
her. 

No  wonder  then  that  Mr.  Vane  felt 
overpowered  by  this  torch  in  a  closet. 
To  vary  the  metaphor,  it  seemed  to 
him,  as  she  swept  up  and  down,  as  if 
the  green-room  was  a  shell,  and  this 
glorious  creature  must  burst  it  and  be 
free.  Meantime,  the  others  saw  a 
pretty  actress  studying  her  business  ; 
and  Gibber  saw  a  dramatic  school-girl 
learning  what  he  presumed  to  be  a 
very  silly  set  of  words.  Sir  C.  Po- 
mander's eye  had  been  on  her  the 
moment  she  entered,  and  he  watched 
keenly  the  effect  of  Vane's  eloquent 
eulogy ;  but  apparently  the  actress 
was  too  deep  in  her  epilogue  for  any- 
thing else.  She  came  in,  saying, 
"  Mum,  mum,  mum,"  over  her  task, 
and  she  went  on  doing  so.  The  ex- 
perienced Mr.  Gibber,  who  had  divined 
Vane  in  an  instant,  drew  him  into  a 
corner,  and  complimented  him  on  his 
well-timed  eulogy. 

"  You  acted  that  mighty  well,  sir," 
said  he.  "  Stop  my  vitals !  if  I  did 
not  think  you  were  in  earnest,  till  I 
saw  the  jade  had  slipped  in  among  us. 
It  told,  sir,  —  it  told." 

Up  fired  Vane.  "  What  do  you 
mean,  sir  ?  "  said  he.  "  Do  you  sup- 
pose my  admiration  of  that  lady  is 
feigned  ?  " 

"  No  need  to  speak  so  loud,  sir," 
replied  the  old  gentleman ;  "  she  hears 
you.  These  hussies  have  ears  like 
hawks." 

He  then  dispensed  a  private  wink 
and  a  public  bow;  with  which  he 
strolled  away  from  Mr.  Vane,  and 


walked  feebly  and  jauntily  up  the 
room,  whistling  "  Fair  Hebe  "  ;  fixing 
his  eye  upon  the  past,  and  somewhat 
ostentatiously  overlooking  the  exist- 
tence  of  the  present  company. 

There  is  no  great  harm  in  an  old 
gentleman  whistling,  but  there  are 
two  ways  of  doing  it ;  and  as  this  old 
bt-au  did  it,  it  seemed  not  unlike  a 
small  cock-a-doodle-doo  of  general 
defiance;  and  the  denizens  of  the 
green-room,  swelled  now  to  a  consid- 
erable number  by  the  addition  of  all 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  had 
been  killed  in  the  fourth  act,  or  whom 
the  buttery-fingered  author  could  not 
keep  in  hand  until  the  fall  of  the  cur- 
tain, felt  it  as  such ;  and  so  they  were 
not  sorry  when  Mrs.  Woffington, 
looking  up  from  her  epilogue,  cast 
a  glance  upon  the  old  beau,  wait- 
ed for  him,  and  walked  parallel  with 
him  on  the  other  side  the  room,  giv- 
ing an  absurdly  exact  imitation  of 
his  carriage  and  deportment.  To 
make  this  more  striking,  she  pulled 
out  of  her  pocket,  after  a  mock  search, 
a  huge  paste  ring,  gazed  on  it  with  a 
ludicrous  affectation  of  simple  won- 
der, stuck  it,  like  Gibber's  diamond,  on 
her  little  finger,  and,  pursing  up  her 
mouth,  proceeded  to  whistle  a  quick 
movement, 

"  Which,  by  some  devilish  cantrip  sleight," 

played  round  the  old  beau's  slow 
movement,  without  being  at  vari- 
ance with  it.  As  for  the  character 
of  this  ladylike  performance,  it  was 
clear,  brilliant,  and  loud  as  black- 
smith. 

The  folk  laughed ;  Vane  was 
shocked.  "  She  profanes  herself  by 
whistling,"  thought  he.  Mr.  Gibber 
was  confounded.  He  appeared  to 
have  no  idea  whence  came  this  spar- 
kling adagio.  He  looked  round,  placed 
his  hands  to  his  ears,  and  left  off 
whistling.  So  did  his  musical  accom- 
plice. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Gibber,  with 
pathetic  gravity,  "  the  wind  howls 
most  dismally  this  evening !  I  took  it 
for  a  drunken  shoemaker  1 " 


16 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


At  this  there  was  a  roar  of  laughter, 
except  from  Mr.  Vane.  Peg  Wof- 
fington  laughed  as  merrily  as  the 
others,  and  showed  a  set  of  teeth  that 
were  really  dazzling ;  but  all  in  one 
moment,  without  the  preliminaries  an 
ordinary  countenance  requires,  this 
laughing  Venus  pulled  a  face  gloomy 
beyond  conception.  Down  came  her 
bhick  brows  straight  as  a  line,  and 
she  cast  a  look  of  bitter  reproach 
on  all  present;  resuming  her  study, 
as  who  should  say,  "  Are  ye  not 
ashamed  to  divert  a  poor  girl  from  her 
epilogue?"  And  then  she  went  on, 
"  Mum  !  mum  !  mum  !  "  casting  off 
ever  and  anon  resentful  glances  ;  and 
this  made  the  fools  laugh  again. 

The  Laureate  was  now  respectfully 
addressed  by  one  of  his  admirers, 
James  Quin,  the  Falstaff  of  the  day, 
and  the  rival  at  this  time  of  Garrick 
in  tragic  characters,  though  the  gen- 
eral opinion  was,  that  he  could  not 
long  maintain  a  standing  against  the 
younger  genius  and  his  rising  school 
of  art. 

Off  the  stage,  James  Quin  was  a 
character;  his  eccentricities  were  three, 
—  a  humorist,  a  glutton,  and  an  hon- 
est man  ;  traits  that  often  caused  as- 
tonishment and  ridicule,  especially 
the  last. 

"  May  we  not  hope  for  something 
from  Mr.  Gibber's  pen  after  so  long  a 
silence  ?  " 

"No,"  was  the  considerate  reply. 
"  Who  have  ye  got  to  play  it  ?  " 

"  Plenty,"  said  Quin ;  "there 's  your 
humble  sen-ant,  there 's  —  " 

"  Humility  at  the  head  of  the  list," 
cried  she  of  the  epilogue.  "  Mum  ! 
mum !  mum ! " 

Vane  thought  this  so  sharp. 

"  Garrick,  Barry,  Macklin,  Kitty 
Clive  here  at  my  side,  Mrs.  Gibber,  the 
best  tragic  actress  I  ever  saw ;  and 
Woffington,  who  is  as  good  a  come- 
dian as  you  ever  saw,  sir  "  ;  and  Quin 
turned  as  red  as  fire. 

"  Keep  your  temper,  Jemmy,"  said 
Mrs.  Woffington,  with  a  severe  accent. 
"  Mum  !  mum !  mum  !  " 

"  You  misunderstand  my  question," 


replied  Gibber,  calmly  ;  "  I  knowyctr 
dramatis  persona,  but  where  the  devil 
are  your  actors  ?  " 

Here  was  a  blow. 

"  The  public,"  said  Quin,  in  sorr.c 
agitation,  "  would  snore,  if  we  acttil 
as  they  did  in  your  time." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  sir  ?  " 
was  the  supercilious  rejoinder;  "you 
never  tried  !  " 

Mr.  Quin  was  silenced.  Peg  Wof- 
fington looked  off  her  epilogue. 

"  Bad  as  we  are,"  said  she,  coolly, 
"  we  might  be  worse." 

Mr.  Gibber  turned  round,  slightly 
raised  his  eyebrows. 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  he.  "  Madam !  " 
added  he,  with  a  courteous  smile; 
"  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  explain 
to  me  how  you  could  be  worse  !  " 

"  If,  like  a  crab,  we  could  go  back- 
wards !  " 

At  this  the  auditors  tittered;  and 
Mr.  Gibber  had  recourse  to  his  spy- 
glass. 

This  gentleman  was  satirical  or  in- 
solent, as  the  case  might  demand,  in 
three  degrees,  of  which  the  snuff-box 
was  the  comparative,  and  the  spy -glass 
the  superlative.  He  had  learned  this 
on  the  stage  ;  in  annihilating  Quin 
he  had  just  used  the  snuff  weapon,  and 
now  he  drew  his  spy-glass  upon  poor 
Peggy. 

"  Whom  have  we  here  ?  "  said  he : 
then  he  looked  with  his  spy-glass  to 
see ;  "  oh !  the  little  Irish  orange- 
girl!" 

"  Whose  basket  outweighed  Colley 
Gibber's  salary  for  the  first  twenty 
years  of  his  dramatic  career,"  was  the 
delicate  reply  to  the  above  delicate 
remark.  It  staggered  him  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  however,  he  affected  a  most 
puzzled  air,  then  gradually  allowed  a 
light  to  steal  into  his  features. 

"  Eh !  ah  !  oh  !  how  stupid  I  am  ; 
I  understand ;  you  sold  something 
besides  oranges  ! " 

"  Oh ! "  said  Mr.  Vane,  and  col- 
ored up  to  the  temples,  and  cast  a 
look  on  Gibber,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  If  you  were  not  seventy-three !  " 

His  ejaculation  was  something  so 


PEG   WOFFINGTON. 


17 


different  from  any  tone  any  other  per- 
son there  present  could  have  uttered, 
that  tiie  actress's  eye  dwelt  on  him 
for  a  single  moment,  and  in  that  mo- 
ment he  felt  himself  looked  through 
anil  through. 

"  I  sold  the  young  fops  a  bargain, 
you  mean,"  was  her  calm  reply ;  "  and 
now  I  am  come  down  to  the  old  ones. 
A  truce,  Mr.  Gibber,  what  do  you  un- 
derstand by  an  actor  ?  Tell  me ;  for 
I  am  foolish  enough  to  respect  your 
opinion  on  these  matters  ! " 

"  An  actor,  young  lady,"  said  he, 
gravely,  "  is  an  artist  who  has  gone 
deep  enough  in  his  art  to  make 
dunces,  critics,  and  greenhorns  take 
it  for  nature ;  moreover,  he  really 
personates ;  which  your  mere  man  of 
the  stage  never  does.  He  has  learned 
the  true  art  of  self-multiplication. 
He  drops  Bctterton,  Booth,  Wilkes, 
or,  ahem  —  " 

"  Gibber,"  inserted  Sir  Charles 
Pomander.  Gibber  bowed. 

"In  his  dressing-room,  and  comes 
out  young  or  old,  a  fop,  a  valet,  a  lov- 
er, or  a  hero,  with  voice,  mien,  and 
every  gesture  to  match.  A  grain  less 
than  this  may  bo  good  speaking,  fine 
preaching,  deep  grunting,  high  rant- 
ing, eloquent  reciting ;  but  I  '11  be 
hanged  if  it  is  acting ! " 

"  Then  Colley  Gibber  never  acted," 
whispered  Quin  to  Mrs.  Clive. 

"  Then  Margaret  Woffington  is  an 
actress,"  said  M.  W. ;  "  the  fine  ladies 
take  my  Lady  Betty  for  their  sister. 
In  Mrs.  Day,  I  pass  for  a  woman  of 
seventy ;  and  in  Sir  Harry  Wildair  I 
have  been  taken  for  a  man.  I  would 
have  told  you  that  before,  but  I 
did  n't  know  it  was  to  my  credit,"  said 
she,  slyly,  "  till  Mr.  Gibber  laid  down 
the  law." 

"Proof!"  said  Gibber. 

"  A  warm  letter  from  one  lady,  dia- 
mond buckles  from  anothqr,  and  an 
offer  of  her  hand  and  fortune  from  a 
third  ;  Tien  que  cela." 

Mr.  Gibber  conveyed  behind  her 
back  a  look  of  absolute  incredulity ; 
she  divined  it. 

"  I  will  not  show  you  the  letters," 


continued  she,  "because  Sir  Harry, 
though  a  rake,  was  a  gentleman ;  but 
here  are  the  buckles  "  ;  and  she  fished 
them  out  of  her  pocket,  capacious  of 
such  things.  The  buckles  were  grave- 
ly inspected,  they  made  more  than  one 
eye  water,  they  were  undeniable. 

"  Well,  let  us  see  what  we  can  do  for 
her,"  said  the  Laureate.  He  tapped 
his  box  and  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation produced  the  most  execrable 
distich  in  the  language  :  — 

"  Now  who  is  like  Peggy,  with  talent  at  will, 
A  maid  loved  her  Harry,  for  want  of  a 
Bill  > 

"  Well,  child,"  continued  he,  after 
the  applause  which  follows  extempo- 
rary verses  had  subsided,  "  take  me  in. 
Play  something  to  make  me  lose  sight 
of  saucy  Peg  Woffington,  and  I  '11  give 
the  world  five  acts  more  before  the 
curtain  falls  on  Colley  Gibber." 

"  If  you  could  be  deceived,"  put  in 
Mr.  Vane,  somewhat  timidly ;  "  I 
think  there  is  no  disguise  through 
which  grace  and  beauty  such  as  Mrs. 
Woffington's  would  not  shine,  to  my 
eyes." 

"  That  is  to  praise  my  person  at 
the  expense  of  my  wit,  sir,  is  it  not  ?  " 
was  her  reply. 

This  was"  the  first  word  she  had 
ever  addressed  to  him.  The  tones 
appeared  so  sweet  to  him,  that  he 
could  not  find  anything  to  reply  for 
listening  to  them;  and  Gibber  re- 
sumed :  — 

"  Meantime,  I  will  show  yofl  a  real 
actress ;  she  is  coming  here  to-night 
to  meet  me.  Did  ever  you  children 
hear  of  Ann  Bracegirdle  ?  " 

"  Bracegirdle  !  "  said  Mrs.  Clive  ; 
"  why,  she  has  been  dead  this  thirty 
years  ;  at  least  I  thought  so." 

"  Dead  to  the  stage.  There  is 
more  heat  in  her  ashes  than  in  your 
fire,  Kate  Clive !  Ah !  here  comes 
her  messenger,"  continued  he,  as  an 
ancient  man  appeared  with  a  letter  in 
his  hand.  This  letter  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton snatched  and  read,  and  at  the 
same  instant  in  bounced  the  call-boy. 
"Epilogue  called,"  said  this  urchin, 


18 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


in  the  tone  of  command  which  these 
small  fry  of  Parnassus  adopt ;  and, 
obedient" to  his  high  behest,  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington  moved  to  the  door,  with  the 
Bracegirdle  missive  in  her  hand,  but 
not  before  she  had  delivered  its  general 
contents  :  "  The  great  actress  will  be 
here  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  she,  and 
she  glided  swiftly  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  II 

PEOPLE  whose  mind  or  manners 
possess  any  feature,  and  are  not  as  de- 
void of  all  eccentricity  as  half-pounds 
of  butter  bought  of  metropolitan  gro- 
cers, are  recommended  not  to  leave  a 
roomful  of  their  acquaintances  until 
the  last  but  one.  Yes,  they  should 
always  be  penultimate.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Woffington  knew  this  ;  but  epilogues 
are  stubborn  things,  and  call-boys  un- 
deniable. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  a  woman 
whistle  before  ?  " 

"  Never  ;  but  I  saw  one  sit  astride 
on  an  ass  in  Germany !  " 

"  The  saddle  was  not  on  her  hus- 
band, I  hope,  madam  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  the  husband  walked  by 
his  kinsfolk's  side,  and  made  the  best 
of  a  bad  bargain,  as  Peggy's  husband 
will  have  to. 

"  Wait  till  some  one  ventures  on 
the  gay  Lotharia,  —  illi  as  triplex  ; 
that  means  he  must  have  triple  brass, 
Kitty.'" 

"  I  deny  that,  sir ;  since  his  wife  will 
always  have  enough  for  both." 

"  I  have  not  observed  the  lady's 
brass,"  said  Vane,  trembling  with  pas- 
sion ;  "  but  I  observed  her  talent,  and 
I  noticed  that  whoever  attacks  her  to 
her  face  comes  badly  off." 

"  Well  said,  sir,"  answered  Qnin  ; 
"  and  I  wish  Kitty  here  would  tell  us 
why  she  hates  Mrs.  Woffington,  the 
best-natured  woman  in  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  I  don't  hate  her,  I  don't  trouble 
my  head  about  her." 

"  Yes,  you  hate  her  ;  for  you  never 
miss  a  cut  at  her,  never ! " 


"Do  you  hate  a  haunch  of  venison, 
Quin  ?  "  said  the  lady. 

"  No,  vou  little  unnatural  monster," 
replied  Quin. 

"  For  all  that,  you  never  miss  a  cut 
at  one,  so  hold  your  tongue ! " 

"  Le  beau  raisonnement !  "  said  Mr. 
Gibber.  "James  Quin,  don't  inter- 
fere with  nature's  laws  ;  let  our  ladies 
hate  one  another,  it  eases  their  minds  ; 
try  to  make  them  Christians,  and  you 
will  not  convert  their  tempers,  but 
spoil  your  own.  Peggy  there  hates 
George  Anne  Bellamy,  because  she 
has  gaudy  silk  dresses  from  Paris,  by 
paying  for  them,  as  she  could,  if  not  too 
stingy.  Kitty  here  hates  Peggy  be- 
cause Rich  has  breeched  her,  whereas 
Kitty,  who  now  sets  up  for  a  prude, 
wanted  to  put  delicacy  off  and  small- 
clothes on  in  Peg's  stead,  that  is 
where  the  Kate  and  Peg  shoe  pinches, 
near  the  femoral  artery,  James. 

"  Shrimps  have  the  souls  of 
shrimps,"  resumed  this  censor  castiya- 
torque  minoriim.  "Listen  to  me,  and 
learn  that  really  great  actors  are  great 
in  soul,  and  do  not  blubber  like  a 
great  school-girl  because  Anne  Bel- 
lamy has  two  yellow  silk  dresses 
|  from  Paris,  as  I  saw  Woffington  blub- 
ber in  this  room,  and  would  not  be 
comforted ;  nor  fume  like  Kitty  Clive, 
because  Woffington  has  a  pair  of 
breeches  and  a  little  boy's  rapier  to  go 
a  playing  at  acting  with.  When  I  was 
young,  two  giantesses  fought  for  em- 
pire upon  this  very  stage,  where  now 
dwarfs  crack  and  bounce  like  parched 
peas.  They  played  Roxana  and  Sta- 
tira  in  the  "  Rival  Queens."  Rival 
queens  of  art  themselves,  they  put  out 
all  their  strength.  In  the  middle  of 
the  last  act  the  town  gave  judgment 
in  favor  of  Statira.  What  did  Rox- 
ana? Did  she  spill  grease  on  Statira's 
robe,  as  Peg  Woffington  would  ?  or 
stab  her,  qs  I  believe  Kitty  here  capa- 
ble of  doing  1  No  !  Statira  was  never 
so  tenderly  killed  as  that  night :  she 
owned  this  to  me.  Roxana  bade  the 
theatre  farewell  that  night,  and  wrote 
to  Statira  thus  :  I  give  you  word  for 
word:  "Madam,  the  best  judge  we 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


19 


have  has  decided  in  your  favor.  I 
shall  never  play  second  on  a  stage 
where  I  have  been  first  so  long,  but 
I  shall  often  be  a  spectator,  and  me- 
thinks  none  will  appreciate  your  tal- 
ent more  than  I,  who  have  felt  its 
weight.  My  wardrobe,  one  of  the  best 
in  Europe,  is  of  no  use  to  me ;  if  you 
will  honor  me  by  selecting  a  few  of 
my  dresses,  you  will  gratify  me,  and  I 
shall  fancy  I  see  myself  upon  the  stage 
to  greater  advantage  than  before.' " 

"  And  what  did  Statira  answer, 
sir  1 "  said  Mr.  Vane,  eagerly. 

"  She  answered  thus  :  '  Madam,  the 
town  has  often  been  wrong,  and  may 
have  been  so  last  night,  in  supposing 
that  I  vied  successfully  with  your  mer- 
it ;  but  thus  much  is  certain,  —  and 
here,  madam,  I  am  the  best  judge,  — 
that  off  the  stage  you  have  just  con- 
quered me.  I  shall  wear  with  pride 
any  dress  you  have  honored,  and  shall 
feel  inspired  to  great  exertions  by 
your  presence  among  our  spectators, 
unless,  indeed,  the  sense  of  your  mag- 
nanimity and  the  recollection  of  your 
talent  should  damp  me  by  the  dread  of 
losing  any  portion  of  your  good  opin- 
ion." 

"  What  a  couple  of  stiff  old  things," 
said  Mrs.  Clive. 

"  Nay,  madam,  say  not  so,"  cried 
Vane,  warmly ;  "  surely,  this  was  the 
lofty  courtesy  of  two  great  minds  not 
to  be  overbalanced  by  strife,  defeat,  or 
victory." 

"  What  were  their  names,  sir  ?  " 

"  Statira  was  the  great  Mrs.  Old- 
field.  Roxana  you  will  see  here  to- 
night." 

This  caused  a  sensation. 

Colley's  reminiscences  were  inter- 
rupted by  loud  applause  from  the  the- 
atre ;  the  present  seldom  gives  the 
past  a  long  hearing. 

The  old  war-horse  cocked  his  ears. 

"  It  is  Woffington  speaking  the  epi- 
logue," said  Quin. 

"  O,  she  has  got  the  length  of  their 
foot,  somehow,"  said  a  small  actress. 

"  And  the  breadth  of  their  hands, 
too,"  said  Pomander,  waking  from  a 
nap. 


"  It  is  the  depth  of  their  hearts  she 
has  sounded,"  said  Vane. 

In  those  days,  if  a  metaphor  started 
up,  the  poor  thing  was  coursed  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  and  torn  limb 
from  jacket ;  even  in  Parliament,  a 
trope  was  sometimes  hunted  from  one 
session  into  another. 
•  "  You  were  asking  me  about  Mrs. 
Oldfield,  sir,"  resumed  Gibber,  rather 
peevishly.  "  I  will  own  to  you,  I 
lack  words  to  convey  a  just  idea  of  her 
double  and  complete  supremacy.  But 
the  comedians  of  this  day  are  weak- 
strained  farceurs  compared  with  her, 
and  her  tragic  tone  was  thunder  set  to 
music. 

"  I  saw  a  brigadier-general  cry  like 
a  child  at  her  Indiana ;  I  have  seen  her 
crying  with  pain  herself  at  the  wing 
(for  she  was  always  a  great  sufferer), 
I  have  seen  her  then  spring  upon  the 
stage  as  Lady  Townley,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment sorrow  brightened  into  joy  ;  the 
air  seemed  to  fill  with  singing-birds, 
that  chirped  .the  pleasures  of  fashion, 
love,  and  youth,  in  notes  sparkling 
like  diamonds  and  stars  and  prisms. 
She  was  above  criticism,  out  of  its 
scope,  as  is  the  blue  sky ;  men  went 
not  to  judge  her,  they  drank  her,  and 
gazed  at  her,  and  were  warmed  at 
her,  and  refreshed  by  her.  The  fops 
were  awed  into  silence,  and  with 
their  humbler  betters  thanked  Heav- 
en for  her,  if  they  thanked  it  for  any- 
thing. 

"  In  all  the  crowded  theatre,  care 
and  pain  and  poverty  were  banished 
from  the  memory,  whilst  Oldfield's 
face  spoke,  and  her  tongue  flashed 
melodies  ;  the  lawyer  forgot  his  quil- 
lets; the  polemic,  the  mote  in  his 
brother's  eye ;  the  old  maid,  her 
grudge  against  the  two  sexes  ;  the  old 
man,  his  gray  hairs  and  his  lost  hours. 
And  can  it  be,  that  all  this  which 
should  have  been  immortal,  is  quite 
—  quite  lost,  is  as  though  it  had 
never  been  1  "  he  sighed.  "  Can  it  be 
that  its  fame  is  now  sustained  by  me  ; 
who  twang  with  my  poor  lute,  cracked 
and  old,  these  feeble  praises  of  a  bro- 
ken lyre :  — 


20 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


'  Whose  wires  were  golden,  and  its  heavenly 

air 

More  tunable  than  lark  to  shepherd's  ear, 
When  wheat  is  green,  when  hawthorn  buds 

appear ' ? " 

He  paused,  and  his  eye  looked  back 
over  many  years  :  then,  with  a  very 
different  tone,  he  added  :  — 

"  And  that  Jack  Falstaff  there  must 
have  seen  her,  now  I  think  on  't." 

"  Only  once,  sir,"  said  Quin,  "  and 
I  was  but  ten  years  old." 

"  He  saw  her  once,  and  he  was  ten 
years  old ;  yet  he  calls  Woffington  a 
great  comedian,  and  my  son  The's 
wife,  with  her  hatchet  face,  the  great- 
est tragedian  he  ever  saw !  Jemmy, 
what  an  ass  you  must  be !  " 

"  Mrs.  Gibber  always  makes  me  cry, 
and  t'other  always  makes  me  laugh," 
said  Quin,  stoutly,  "  that 's  why." 

Ce  beau  raisonnement  met  no  answer, 
but  a  look  of  sovereign  contempt. 

A  very  trifling  incident  saved  the 
ladies  of  the  British  stage  from  fur- 
ther criticism.  There  were  two  can- 
dles in  this  room,  one  on  each  side ; 
the  call-boy  had  entered,  and,  poking 
about  for  something,  knocked  down 
and  broke  one  of  these. 

"  Awkward  imp ! "  cried  a  velvet 
page. 

"  1 11  go  to  the  Treasury  for  anoth- 
er, ma'am,"  said  the  boy,  pertly,  and 
vanished  with  the  fractured  wax. 

I  take  advantage  of  the  interruption 
to  open  Mr.  Vane's  mind  to  the  read- 
er. First,  he  had  been  astonished  at 
the  freedom  of  sarcasm  these  people 
indulged  in  without  quarrelling ;  next 
at  the  non-respect  of  sex. 

"  So  sex  is  not  recognized  in  this 
community,"  thought,  he.  Then  the 
glibness  and  merit  of  some  of  their 
answers  surprised  and  amused  him. 
He,  like  me,  had  seldom  met  an  im- 
aginative repartee,  except  in  a  play  or 
a  book.  "  Society's  "  repartees  were 
then,  as  they  are  now,  the  good  old 
tree  in  various  dresses  and  veils  :  Tu 
quoque,  tu  mentiris,  vos  damnemini ;  but 
he  was  sick  and  dispirited  on  the 
whole ;  such  very  bright  illusions  had 
been  dimmed  in  these  few  minutes. 


She  was  brilliant ;  but  her  mr.n- 
ners,  if  not  masculine,  were  very  dar- 
ing ;  and  yet,  when  she  spoke  to  him, 
a  stranger,  how  sweet  and  gentle  her 
voice  was  !  Then  it  was  clear  noth- 
ing but  his  ignorance  could  have 
placed  her  at  the  summit  of  her 
art. 

Still  he  clung  to  his  enthusiasm 
for  her.  He  drew  Pomander  aside. 
"  What  a  simplicity  there  is  in 
Mrs.  Woffington  !  "  said  he  ;  "  the 
rest,  male  and  female,  are  all  so  af- 
fected ;  she  is  so  fresh  and  natural. 
They  are  all  hot-house  plants ;  she 
is  a  cowslip  with  the  May  dew  on 
it." 

""What  you  take  for  simplicity  is 
her  refined  art,"  replied  Sir  Charles. 

"  No  !  "  said  Vane,  "  I  never  saw  a 
more  innocent  creature  1  " 

Pomander  laughed  in  his  face ;  this 
laugh  disconcerted  him  more  than 
words ;  he  spoke  no  more,  —  he  sat 
pensive.  He  was  sorry  he  had  come 
to  this  place,  where  everybody  knew 
his  goddess ;  yet  nobody  admired, 
nobody  loved,  and,  alas  !  nobody  re- 
spected her. 

He  was  roused  from  his  revery  by 
a  noise ;  the  noise  was  caused  by 
Gibber  falling  on  Garrick,  whom 
Pomander  had  maliciously  quoted 
against  all  the  tragedians  of  Colley 
Gibber's  day. 

"I  tell  you,"  cried  the  veteran, 
"  that  this  Garrick  has  banished  dig- 
nity from  the  stage,  and  given  us  in 
exchange  what  you  and  he  take  for 
fire  ;  but  it  is  smoke  and  vapor.  His 
manner  is  little,  like  his  person,  it  is 
all  fuss  and  bustle.  This  is  his  idea 
of  a  tragic  scene :  A  little  fellow 
comes  bustling  in,  goes  bustling  about, 
and  runs  bustling  out."  Here  Mr. 
Gibber  left  the  room,  to  give  greater 
effect  to  his  description,  but  presently 
returned  in  a  mighty  pother,  saving : 
"  '  Give  me  another  horse  ! '  Well, 
where 's  the  horse  ?  don't  you  see  I  'm 
waiting  for  him  ?  '  Bind  up  my 
wounds  ! '  Look  sharp  now  with 
these  wounds.  '  Have  mercy,  Heav- 
en ! '  but  be  quick  about  it,  for  the  pit 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


21 


can't  wait  for  Heaven.  Bustle !  bus- 
tle !  bustle ! " 

The  old  dog  was  so  irresistibly 
funny,  that  the  whole  company  were 
obliged  to  laugh  ;  but  in  the  midst  of 
their  merriment  Mrs.  Woffington's 
voice  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"  This  way,  madam." 

A  clear  and  somewhat  shrill  voice 
replied  :  "  I  know  the  way  better 
than  you,  child " ;  and  a  stately  old 
lady  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

"  Bracegirdle,"  said  Mr.  Gibber. 

It  may  well  be  supposed  that  every 
eye  was  turned  on  this  new-comer,  — 
that  Roxana  for  whom  Mr.  Gibber's 
story  had  prepared  a  peculiar  interest. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  rich  green  vel- 
vet gown  with  gold  fringe.  Gibber 
remembered  it ;  she  had  played  the 
"  Eastern  Queen,"  in  it.  Heaven  for- 
give all  concerned !  It  was  fearful- 
ly pinched  in  at  the  waist  and  ribs,  so 
as  to  give  the  idea  of  wood  inside,  not 
woman. 

Her  hair  and  eyebrows  were  iron- 
gray,  and  she  had  lost  a  front  tooth,  or 
she  would  still  have  been  eminently 
handsome.  She  was  tall  and  straight 
as  a  dart,  and  her  noble  port  betrayed 
none  of  the  weakness  of  age,  only  it 
was  to  be  seen  that  her  hands  were  a 
little  weak,  and  the  gold-headed  crutch 
struck  the  ground  rather  sharply,  as 
if  it  did  a  little  limbs'-duty. 

Such  was  the  lady  who  marched 
into  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  a 
"  How  do,  Colley  ?  "  and,  looking 
over  the  company's  heads  as  if  she  did 
not  see  them,  regarded  the  four  walls 
with  some  interest.  Like  a  cat,  she 
seemed  to  think  more  of  places  than 
of  folk.  The  page  obsequiously  of- 
fered her  a  chair. 

"  Not  so  clean  as  it  used  to  be,"  said 
Mrs.  Bracegirdle. 

Unfortunately,  in  making  this  re- 
mark, the  old  lady  graciously  patted 
the  page's  head  for  offering  her  the 
chair;  and  this  action  gave,  with 
some  of  the  ill-constituted  minds  that 
are  ever  on  the  titter,  a  ridiculous  di- 
rection to  a  remark  intended,  I  believe, 
for  the  paint  and  wainscots,  &c. 


"Nothing  is  as  it  used  to  be,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Gibber. 

"  All  the  better  for  everything," 
said  -Mrs.  Clive. 

"  We  were  laughing  at  this  mighty 
little  David,  first  actor  of  this  mighty 
little  age." 

Now  if  Mr.  Gibber  thought  to  find 
in  the  new-comer  an  ally  of  the  past 
in  its  indiscriminate  attack  upon  the 
present,  he  was  much  mistaken ;  for 
the  old  actress  made  onslaught  on  this 
nonsense  at  once. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  she,  "  and  not  the 
first  time  by  many  hundreds,  "f  is  a 
disease  you  have.  Cure  yourself, 
Colley.  Davy  Garrick  pleases  the 
public  ;  and  in  trifles  like  acting,  that 
take  nobody  to  heaven,  to  please  all 
the  world,  is  to  be  great.  Some  pre- 
tend to  higher  aims,  but  none  have 
'em.  You  may  hide  this  from  young 
fools,  mayhap,  but  not  from  an  old 
'oman  like  me.  He !  he  !  he  !  No, 
no,  no,  —  not  from  an  old  'oman  like 
me." 

She  then  turned  round  in  her  chair, 
and  with  that  sudden,  unaccountable 
snappishness  of  tone  to  which  the 
brisk  old  are  subject,  she  snarled  : 
"  Gie  me  a  pinch  of  snuff,  some  of  ye, 
do !  " 

Tobacco  dust  was  instantly  at  her 
disposal.  She  took  it  with  the  points 
of  her  fingers,  delicately,  and  divest- 
ed the  crime  of  half  its  uncleanness 
and  vulgarity,  —  more  an  angel  could 
n't. 

"  Monstrous  sensible  woman, 
though !  "  whispered  Quin  to  Clive. 

"  Hey,  sir !  what  do  you  say,  sir  ? 
for  I  'm  a  little  deaf."  (Not  very  to 
praise,  it  seems. ) 

41  That  your  judgment,  madam,  is 
equal  to  the  reputation  of  your  tal- 
ent." 

The  words  were  hardly  spoken,  be- 
fore the  old  lady  rose  upright  as  a 
tower.  She  then  made  an  oblique 
preliminary  sweep,  and  came  down 
with  such  a  courtesy  as  the  young  had 
never  seen. 

James  Quin,  not  to  disgrace  his 
generation,  attempted  a  correspond- 


22 


.  PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


ing  bow,  for  which  his  figure  and 
apoplectic  tendency  rendered  him  un- 
fit; and  whilst  he  was  transacting  it, 
the  graceful  Gibber  stepped  gravely 
up,  and  looked  down  and  up  the  pro- 
cess with  his  glass,  like  a  naturalist 
inspecting  some  strange  capriccio  of 
an  orang-outang.  The  gymnastics 
of  courtesy  ended  without  back-falls, 
—  Gibber  lowered  his  tone. 

"  You  are  right,  Bracy.  It  is  non- 
sense denying  the  young  fellow's  tal- 
ent; but  his  Othello,  now,  Bracy! 
be  just,  —  his  Othello!" 

"  O  dear !  O  dear  !  "  cried  she ; 
"  I  thought  it  was  Desdemona's  little 
black  boy  come  in  without  the  tea- 
kettle." 

Quin  laughed  uproariously. 

"  It  made  me  laugh  a  deal  more 
than  Mr.  Quin's  Falstaff.  O  dear! 
O  dear !  " 

"Falstaff,  indeed!  Snuff! "  In 
the  tone  of  a  trumpet. 

Quin  secretly  revoked  his  good 
opinion  of  this  woman's  sense. 

"Madam,"  said  the  page,  timidly, 
"  if  you  would  but  favor  us  with  a 
specimen  of  the  old  style ! " 

"Well,  child,  why  not?  Only 
what  makes  you  mumble  like  that? 
but  they  all  do  it  now,  I  see.  Bless 
my  soul !  our  words  used  to  come  out 
like  brandy-cherries  ;  but  now  a  sen- 
tence is  like  raspberry-jam,  on  the 
stage  and  off." 

Gibber  chuckled. 

"And  why  don't  you  men  carry 
yourself  like  Gibber  here  ? " 

"  Don't  press  that  question,"  said 
Colley,  dryly. 

"  A  monstrous  poor  actor,  though," 
said  the  merciless  old  woman,  in  a 
mock  aside  to  the  others  ;  "  only 
twenty  shillings  a  week  for  half 
his  life " ;  and  her  shoulders  went 
up  to  her  ears,  —  then  she  fell  into 
a  half-revery.  "  Yes,  we  were  dis- 
tinct," said  she ;  "  but  I  must  own, 
children,  we  were  slow.  Once,  in 
the  midst  of  a  beautiful  tirade,  my 
lover  went  to  sleep,  and  fell  against 
me.  A  mighty  pretty  epigram, 
twenty  lines,  was.  writ  on 't  by  one 


of  my  gallants.     Have  ye  as  many 
of  them  as  we  used  t  " 

"  In  that  respect,"  said  the  page, 
"  we  are  not  behind  our  great-grand- 
mothers." 

"  I  call  that  pert,"  said  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle,  with  the  air  of  one  drawing 
scientific  distinctions.  "  Now,  is  that 
a  boy  or  a  lady  that  spoke  to  me 
last  ?  " 

"  By  its  dress,  I  should  say  a  boy," 
said  Gibber,  with  his  glass;  "by "its 
assurance,  a  lady !  " 

"  There  'e  one  clever  woman 
amongst  ye;  Peg  something,  plays 
Lothario,  Lady  Betty  Modish,  and 
what  not  ?  " 

"  What !  admire  Woffington  ?  " 
screamed  Mrs.  Clive ;  "  why,  she  is 
the  greatest  gabbler  on  the  stage." 

"I  don't  care,"  was  the  reply, 
".there  's  nature  about  the  jade. 
Don't  contradict  me,"  added  she,  with 
sudden  fury ;  "  a  parcel  of  children." 
"  No,  madam,"  said  Clive,  humbly. 
"  Mr.  Gibber,  will  you  try  and  pre- 
vail on  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  to  favor  us 
with  a  recitation  1 " 

Gibber  handed  his  cane  with  pomp 
to  a  small  actor.  Bracegirdle  did  the 
same ;  and,  striking  the  attitudes  that 
had  passed  for  heroic  in  their  day, 
they  declaimed  out  of  the  "  Rival 
Queens  "  two  or  three  tirades,  which 
I  graciously  spare  the  reader  of  this 
tale.  Their  elocution  was  neat  and 
silvery ;  but  not  one  bit  like  the  way 
people  speak  in  streets,  palaces,  fields, 
roads,  and  rooms.  They  had  not 
made  the  grand  discovery,  which  Mr. 
A.  Wigan  on  the  stage,  and  every 
man  of  sense  off  it,  has  made  in  our 
day  and  nation ;  namely,  that  the 
stage  is  a  representation,  not  of  stage, 
but  of  life  ;  and  that  an  actor  ought 
to  speak  and  act  in  imitation  of  hu- 
man beings,  not  of  speaking  machines 
that  have  run  and  creaked  in  a  stage 
groove,  with  their  eyes  shut  upon  the 
world  at  large,  upon  nature,  upon 
truth,  upon  man,  upon  woman,  and 
upon  child. 

"  This  is  slow,"  cried  Gibber ;  "  let 
us  show  these  young  people  how 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


23 


ladies  and  gentlemen  moved  fifty 
years  ago,  dansons." 

A  fiddler  was  caught,  a  beautiful 
slow  minuet  played,  and  a  bit  of 
"solemn  dancing"  done.  Certainly, 
it  was  not  gay,  but  it  must  be  owned 
it  was  beautiful ;  it  was  the  dance  of 
kings,  the  poetry  of  the  courtly  sa- 
loon. 

The  retired  actress,  however,  had 
frisker  notions  left  in  her.  "  This  is 
slow,"  cried  she,  and  bade  the  fiddler 
play,  "  The  wind  that  shakes  the  bar- 
ley," an  ancient  jig  tune ;  this  she 
danced  to  in  a  style  that  utterly  as- 
tounded the  spectators. 

She  showed  them  what  fun  was ; 
her  feet  and  her  stick  were  all  echoes 
to  the  mad  strain  ;  out  went  her  heel 
behind,  and,  returning,  drove  her  four 
yards  forward.  She  made  unaccoun- 
table slants,  and  cut  them  all  over 
in  turn  if  they  did  not  jump  for  it 
Roars  of  inextinguishable  laughter 
arose,  it  would  have  made  an  oyster 
merry.  Suddenly  she  stopped,  and 
put  her  hands  to  her  sides,  and  soon 
after  she  gave  a  vehement  cry  of 
pain. 

The  laughter  ceased. 

She  gave  another  cry  of  such  agony, 
that  they  were  all  round  her  in  a 
moment. 

"  O,  help  me,  ladies,"  screamed 
the  poor  woman,  in  tones  as  feminine 
as  they  were  heart-rending  and  pite- 
ous. "  O  my  back  !  my  loins  !  I  suf- 
fer, gentlemen,"  said  the  poor  thing, 
faintly. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  Mr.  Vane 
offered  his  penknife  to  cut  her  laces. 

"  You  shall  cut  my  head  off  soon- 
er," cried  she,  with  sudden  energy. 
"  Don't  pity  me,"  said  she,  sadly,  "  I 
don't  deserve  it " ;  then,  lifting  her 
eyes,  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sad  air  of 
self-reproach :  "  O  vanity !  do  you  nev- 
er leave  a  woman "?  " 

"  Nay,  madam  !  "  whimpered  the 
page,  who  was  a  good-hearted  girl  ; 
"  't  was  your  great  complaisance  for 
us,  not  vanity.  Oh !  oh !  oh ! "  and 
she  began  to  blubber,  to  make  mat- 
ters better. 


"No,  my  children,"  said  the  old 
lady,  "'twas  vanity.  I  wanted  to 
show  you  what  an  old  'oman  could 
do ;  and  I  have  humiliated  myself, 
trying  to  outshine  younger  folk.  I 
am  justly  humiliated,  as  you  see";  and 
she  began  to  cry  a  little. 

"  This  is  very  painful,"  said  Gibber. 

Mrs.  Bracegirdle  now  raised  her 
eyes  (they  had  set  her  in  a  chair),  and 
looking  sweetly,  tenderly,  and  earnest- 
ly on  her  old  companion,  she  said  to 
him,  slowly,  gently,  but  impressive- 
ly :  "  Colley,  at  threescore  years  and 
ten,  this  was  ill  done  of  us !  You 
and  I  are  here  now — for  what?  to 
cheer  the  young  up  the  hill  we  mount- 
ed years  ago.  And,  old  friend,  if  we 
detract  from  them  we  discourage  them. 
A  great  sin  in  the  old  !  " 

"  Every  dog  his  day." 

"  We  have  had  ours."  Here  she 
smiled,  then,  laying  her  hand  tenderly 
in  the  old  man's,  she  added,  with  calm 
solemnity :  "  And  now  we  must  go 
quietly  towards  our  rest,  and  strut 
and  fret  no  more  the  few  last  minutes 
of  life's  fleeting  hour." 

How  tame  my  cacotype  of  these 
words  compared  with  what  they  were. 
I  am  ashamed  of  them  and  myself, 
and  the  human  craft  of  writing,  which, 
though  commoner  far,  is  so  miserably 
behind  the  godlike  art  of  speech  :  *Si 
ipsam  audivisses  ! 

These  ink  scratches,  which  in  the 
imperfection  of  language  we  have 
called  words,  till  the  unthinking  act- 
ually dream  they  are  words,  but  which 
are  the  shadows  of  the  corpses  of 
words  ;  these  word-shadows  then  were 
living  powers  on  her  lips,  and  sub- 
dued, as  eloquence  always  does,  every 
heart  within  reach  of  the  imperial 
tongue. 

The  young  loved  her,  and  the  old 
man,  softened  and  vanquished,  and 
mindful  of  his  failing  life,  was  silent, 
and  pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his 
eyes  a  moment ;  then  he  said :  — 

"No,  Bracy,  no.  Be  composed, 
I  pray  you.  She  is  right.  Young 
people,  forgive  me  that  I  love  the  dead 
too  well,  and  the  days  when  I  was 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


what  you  are  now.  Drat  the  woman," 
continued  he,  half  ashamed  of  his 
emotion ;  "  she  makes  us  laugh,  and 
makes  us  cry,  just  as  she  used." 

"  What  does  he  say,  young  wo- 
man ?  "  said  the  old  lady,  drvlv,  to 
Mrs.  Clive. 

"  He  says  you  make  us  laugh,  and 
make  us  cry,  madam ;  and  so  you  do 
me,  I  'm  sure." 

"  And  that 's  Peg  Woffington's  no- 
tion of  an  actress  !  Better  it,  Gibber 
and  Bracegirdle,  if  you  can,"  said  the 
other,  rising  up  like  lightning. 

She  then  threw  Colley  Gibber  a 
note,  and  walked  coolly  and  rapidly 
out  of  the  room,  without  looking  once 
behind  her. 

The  rest  stood  transfixed,  looking 
at  one  another,  and  at  the  empty 
chair.  Then  Gibber  opened  and  read 
the  note  aloud.  It  was  from  Mrs. 
Bracegirdle :  "  Playing  at  tric-trac ; 
so  can't  play  the  fool  in  your  green- 
room to-night.  —  B." 

On  this,  a  musical  ringing  laugh 
was  heard  from  outside  the  door,  where 
the  pseudo  Bracegirdle  was  washing 
the  gray  from  her  hair,  and  the 
wrinkles'from  her  face,  —  ah !  I  wish  I 
could  do  it  as  easily !  —  and  the  little 
bit  of  sticking-plaster  from  her  front 
tooth. 

"  Why,  it  is  the  Irish  jade !  "  roared 
Gibber. " 

"  Divil  a  less  !  "  rang  back  a  rich 
brogue ;  "  and  it 's  not  the  furst  time 
we  put  the  comether  upon  ye,  Eng- 
land, my  jewal ! " 

One  more  mutual  glance,  and  then 
the  mortal  cleverness  of  all  this  began 
to  dawn  on  their  minds ;  and  they 
broke  forth  into  clapping  of  hands, 
and  gave  this  accomplished  mime 
three  rounds  of  applause ;  Mr.  Vane 
and  Sir  Charles  Pomander  leading 
with,  "  Brava,  Woffington  !  " 

Its  effect  on  'Mr.  Vane  may  be 
imagined.  Who  but  she  could  have 
done  this  ?  This  was  as  if  a  painter 
should  so  paint  a  man  as  to  deceive 
his  species.  This  was  acting,  but  not 
like  the  acting  of  the  stage.  He  was 
in  transports,  and  self-satisfaction  at 


his  own  judgment  mingled  pleasantly 
with  his  admiration. 

In  this  cheerful  exhibition,  one 
joined  not,  —  Mr.  Gibber.  His  the- 
ories had  received  a  shock  (and  we  all 
love  our  theories).  He  himself  had 
received  a  rap,  and  we  don't  hate  our- 
selves. 

Great  is  the  syllogism !  But  there 
is  a  class  of  arguments  less  vulnera- 
ble. 

If  A  says  to  B,  "  You  can't  hit  me, 
as  I  prove  by  this  syllogism  "  (here 
followeth  the  syllogism),  "  and  B, 
pour  toute  rtfponse,  knocks  A  down 
such  a  whack  that  he  rebounds  into  a 
sitting  posture  ;  and  to  him  the  man^ 
the  tree,  the  lamp-post,  and  the  fire- 
escape  become  not  clearly  distinguish- 
able ;  this  barbarous  logic  prevails 
against  the  logic  in  Barbara,  and  the 
syllogism  is  in  the  predicament  of 
Humpty  Dumpty. 

In  this  predicament  was  the  Poet 
Laureate.  "  The  miscreant  Proteus 
(could  not)  escape  these  chains  !  "  So 
the  miscreant  Proteus  —  no  bad  name 
for  an  old  actor  —  took  his  little 
cocked  hat  and  marched,  a  smaller,  if 
not  a  wiser  man.  Some  disjointed 
words  fell  from  him  :  "  Mimicry  is 
not  acting,"  &c. ;  and  with  one  bitter, 
mowing  glance  at  the  applauders,  cir- 
cumferens  acriter  oculos,  he  vanished  in 
the  largest  pinch  of  snuff  on  record. 
The  rest  dispersed  more  slowly. 

Mr.  Vane  waited  eagerly,  and 
watched  the  door  for  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton ;  but  she  did  not  come.  He  then 
made  acquaintance  with  good-natured 
Mr.  Quin,  who  took  him  upon  the 
stage  and  showed  him  by  what  vulgar 
appliances  that  majestic  rise  of  the 
curtain  he  so  admired  was  effected. 
Returning  to  the  green-room  for  his 
friend,  he  found  him  in  animated 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Woffington. 
This  made  Vane  uneasy. 

Sir  Charles,  up  to  the  present  mo- 
ment of  the  evening,  had"  been  un- 
wontedly  silent,  and  now  he  was  talk- 
ing nineteen  to  the  dozen,  and  Mrs. 
Woffington  was  listening  with  an 
appearance  of  interest  that  sent  a 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


25 


pang  to  poor  Vane's  heart ;  he  begged 
Mr  Quin  to  introduce  him. 

Mr.  Quin  introduced  him. 

The  L)dy  received  his  advances 
with  polite  composure.  Mr.  Vane 
stammered  his  admiration  of  her 
Bracegirdle;  but  all  he  could  find 
words  to  say  was  mere  general  praise, 
and  somewhat  coldly  received.  Sir 
Charles,  on  the  contrary,  spoke  more 
like  a  critic.  "  Had  you  given  us  the 
stage  cackle,  or  any  of  those  tradition- 
ary symptoms  of  old  age,  we  should 
have  instantly  detected  you,"  said  he  ; 
"  but  this  was  art  copying  nature,  and 
it  may  be  years  before  such  a  triumph 
of  illusion  is  again  effected  under  so 
many  adverse  circumstances." 

"  You  are  very  good,  Sir  Charles," 
was  the  reply.  "  You  natter  me.  It 
was  one  of  those  things  which  look 
greater  than  they  are  ;  nobody  here 
knew  Bracegirdle  but  Mr.  Gibber; 
Mr.  Gibber  cannot  see  well  without 
his  glasses,  and  I  got  rid  of  one  of  the 
candles  ;  I  sent  one  of  the  imps  of  the 
theatre  to  knock  it  down.  I  know 
Mrs.  Bracegirdle  by  heart.  I  drink 
tea  with  her  every  Sunday.  I  had 
her  dress  on,  and  I  gave  the  old  boy 
her  words  and  her  way  of  thinking ; 
it  was  mere  mimicry ;  it  was  nothing 
compared  with  what  I  once  did ;  but, 
a-hem  !  " 

"  Pray  tell  us  ! " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  shock  your 
friend.  I  see  he  is  not  a  wicked  man 
like  you,  and  perhaps  does  not  know 
what  good-for-nothing  creatures  ac- 
tresses arc." 

"  He  is  not  so  ignorant  as  he 
looks,"  replied  Sir  Charles. 

"  That  is  not  quite  the  answer  I 
expected,  Sir  Charles,"  replied  this 
lively  lady  ;  "  but  it  serves  me  right 
for  fishing  on  dry  land.  Well,  then, 
you  must  know  a  young  gentleman 
courted  me.  I  forget  'whether  I  liked 
him  or  not ;  but  you  will  fancy  I 
hated  him,  for  I  promised  to  marry 
him.  You  must  understand,  gentle- 
men, that  I  was  sent  into  the  world, 
not  to  act,  which  I  abominate,  but  to 
chronicle  small  beer  and  teach  an 
2 


army  of  little  brats  their  letters ;  so 
this  word  '  wife,'  and  that  word 
'  chimney-corner,'  took  possession  of 
my  mind,  and  a  vision  of  darning 
stockings  for  a  large  party,  all  my 
own,  filled  my  heart,  and  really  I  felt 
quite  grateful  to  the  little  brute  that 
was  to  give  me  all  this,  and  he  would 
have  had  such  a  wife  as  men  never  do 
have,  still  less  deserve.  But  one  fine 
day.  that  the  theatre  left  me  time  to 
examine  his  manner  towards  me,  I 
instantly  discovered  he  was  deceiving 
me.  So  I  had  him  watched,  and  the 
little  brute  was  going  to  marry  anoth- 
er woman,  and  break  it  to  me  by  de- 
grees afterwards,  &c.  You  know,  Sir 
Charles  ?  Ah !  I  see  you  do. 

"  I  found  her  out ;  got  an  introduc- 
tion to  her  father;  went  down  to 
his  house  three  days  before  the  mar- 
riage, with  a  little  coal-black  mus- 
tache, regimentals,  and  what  not, 
made  up,  in  short,  with  the  art  of  my 
sex,  gentlemen,  —  and  the  impudence 
of  yours. 

"  The  first  day  I  flirted  and  danced 
with  the  bride.  The  second  I  made 
love  to  her,  and  at  night  I  let  her 
know  that  her  intended  was  a  villain. 
I  showed  her  letters  of  his  ;  protesta- 
tions, oaths  of  eternal  fidelity  to  one 
Peg  Woffington,  'who  will  die/ 
drawled  I,  '  if  he  betrays  her/ 

"  And  here,  gentlemen,  mark  the 
justice  of  Heaven.  I  received  a  back- 
handed slap  :  '  Peg  Woffington  !  an 
actress  !  O,  the  villain  ! '  cried  she  ; 
'let  him  marry  the  little  vagabond. 
How  dare  he  insult  me  with  his  hand 
that  had  been  offered  in  such  a  quar- 
ter?' 

"  So,  in  a  fit  of  virtuous  indigna- 
tion, the  little  hypocrite  dismissed  the 
little  brute ;  in  other  words,  she.  had 
fallen  in  love  with  me. 

"  I  have  not  had  many  happy 
hours,  but  I  remember  it  was  delicious 
to  look  out  of  my  window,  and  at  the 
same  moment  smell  the  honeysuckles 
and  see  my  perfide  dismissed  under  a 
heap  of  scorn  and  a  pile  of  luggage 
he  had  brought  down  for  his  wedding 
tour. 


26 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


"  I  scampered  up  to  London,  laugh- 
ing all  the  way ;  and  when  I  got 
home,  if  I  remember  right,  I  cried  for 
two  hours.  How  do  you  account  for 
that  1 " 

"  I  hope,  madam,"  said  Vane, 
gravely,  "  it  was  remorse  for  having 
trifled  with  that  poor  young  lady's 
heart ;  she  had  never  injured  you." 

"  But,  sir,  the  husband  I  robbed 
her  of  was  a  brute  and  a  villain  in  his 
little  way,  and  wicked  and  good-for- 
nothing,  &c.  lie  would  have  deceived 
that  poor  little  hypocrite,  as  he  had 
this  one,"  pointing  to  herself. 

"  That  is  not  what  I  mean ;  you 
inspired  her  with  an  attachment,  nev- 
er to  be  forgotten.  Poor  lady,  how 
many  sleepless  nights  has  she  passed 
since  then,  how  many  times  has  she 
strained  her  eyes  to  see  her  angel 
lover  returning  to  her !  She  will  not 
forget  in  two  years  the  love  it  cost 
you  but  two  days  to  inspire.  The 
powerful  should  be  merciful.  Ah  !  I 
fear  you  have  no  heart." 

These  words  had  no  sooner  burst 
from  Mr.  Vane,  than  he  was  con- 
scious of  the  strange  liberty  he  had 
taken,  and,  indeed,  the  bad  taste  he 
had  been  guilty  of;  and  this  feeling 
was  not  lessened  when  he  saw  Mrs. 
Woffington  color  up  to  the  temples. 
Her  eyes,  too,  glittered  like  basilisks  : 
but  she  said  nothing,  which  was  re- 
markable in  her,  whose  tongue  was 
the  sword  of  a  mail  re  (Farmes. 

Sir  Charles  eyed  his  friend  in  a  sly, 
satirical  manner ;  he  then  said,  laugn- 
inglv  :   "  In  two  months  she  married  a 
(bra/   don't  waste  your  sympathy," 
and  turned  the  talk  into  another  chan- 
nel ;  and   soon   after,  Mrs.  Woflfinir- 
ton's  maid  appearing  at  the  door,  .she  j 
courtesicd  to  both  gentlemen  and  left 
the  theatre.     Sir  Charles  Pomander  i 
accompanied  Mr.  Vane  a  little  way.    | 

"  What  becomes  of  her  innocence  ?  " 
was  his  first  word. 

"  One  loses  sight  of  it  in  her  im- 
mense talent,"  said  the  lover. 

"  She  certainly  is  clever  in  all  that 
bears  upon  her  business,"  was  the 
reply ;  "  but  I  noticed  you  were  a 


little  shocked  with  her  indelicacy  in 
telling  us  that  story,  and  still  more  in 
having  it  to  tell." 

"  Indelicacy  ?  Xo ! "  said  Vane ; 
"  the  little  brute  deserved  it.  Good 
Heavens !  to  think  that '  a  little  brute ' 
might  have  married  that  angel,  and 
actually  broke  faith  to  lose  her ;  it  is 
incredible,  the  crime  is  diluted  by  the 
absurdity." 

"  Have  you  heard  him  tell  the 
story  1  No  1  Then  take  my  word 
for  it,  yon  have  not  heard  the  "facts  of 
the  case." 

"  Ah !  you  are  prejudiced  against 
her  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  like  her.  But 
I  know  that  with  all  women  the 
present  lover  is  an  angel  and  the  past 
a  demon,  and  so  on  in  turn.  And  I 
know  that  if  Satan  were  to  enter  the 
women  of  the  stage,  with  the  wild  idea 
of  impairing  their  veracity,  he  would 
come  out  of  their  minds  a  greater  liar 
than  he  went  in,  and  the  innocent 
darlings  would  never  know  their  spir- 
itual father  had  been  at  them." 

Doubtful  whether  this  sentiment 
and  period  could  be  improved,  Sir 
Charles  parted  with  his  friend,  leaving 
his  sting  in  him  like  a  friend ;  the 
other's  reflections  as  he  sauntered 
home  were  not  strictly  those  of  a  wise, 
well-balanced  mind ;  they  ran  in  this 
style :  — 

"  When  she  said,  '  Is  not  that  to 
praise  my  person  at  the  expense  of 
my  wit?'  I  ought  to  have  said, 
'  Nay,  madam ;  could  your  wit  dis- 
guise your  pei-son,  it  would  betray 
itself,  so  you  would  still  shine  con- 
fessed ' ;  and  instead  of  that  I  said 
nothing !  " 

He  then  ran  over  in  his  mind  all 
the  opportunities  he  had  had  for  put- 
ting in  something  smart,  and  hitter- 
ly  regretted  those  lost  opportunities  ; 
and  made  the  smart  things,  and  beat 
the  air  with  them.  Then  his  cheeks 
tingled  when  he  remembered  that  he 
had  almost  scolded  her ;  and  he  con- 
cocted a  very  different  speech,  and 
straightway  repeated  it  in  imagina- 
tion. 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


27 


This  is  lovers'  pastime;  I  own  it 
funny ;  but  it  is  open  to  one  objec- 
tion, this  single  practice  of  sitting 
upon  eggs  no  longer  chickenable, 
carried  to  a  habit,  is  capable  of  turn- 
ing a  solid  intellect  into  a  liquid  one, 
and  ruining  a  mind's  career. 

We  leave  Mr.  Vane,  therefore,  with 
a  hope  that  he  will  not  do  it  every 
night ;  and  we  follow  his  friend  to 
the  close  of  our  chapter. 

Hey  for  a  definition  ! 

What  is  diplomacy  1  Is  it  folly  in 
a  coat  that  looks  like  sagacity  ?  Had 
Sir  Charles  Pomander,  instead  of 
watching  Mr.  Vane  and  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington,  asked  the  former  whether 
he  admired  the  latter,  and  whether 
the  latter  responded,  straightforward 
Vane  would  have  told  him  the  whole 
truth  in  a  minute.  Diplomacy  there- 
fore was,  as  it  often  is,  a  waste  of  time. 

But  diplomacy  did  more  in  this 
case,  it  sapienter  descendebat  infossam  ; 
it  fell  on  its  nose  with  gymnastic 
dexterity,  as  it  generally  does,  upon 
my  word. 

To  watch  Mrs.  Woffington's  face 
vis-a-vis  Mr.  Vane,  Pomander  intro- 
duced Vane  to  the  green-room  of  the 
Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Garden.  By 
this  Pomander  learned  nothing,  be- 
cause Mrs.  Woffington  had,  with  a 
wonderful  appearance  of  openness, 
the  closest  face  in  Europe  when  she 
chose. 

On  the  other  hand,  by  introducing 
this  country  gentleman  to  this  green- 
room, he  gave  a  mighty  impulse  and 
opportunity  to  Vane's  love;  an  op- 
portunity which  he  forgot  the  timid, 
inexperienced  Damon  might  other- 
wise never  have  found. 

Here  diplomacy  was  not  policy,  for, 
as  my  sagacious  reader  has  perhaps 
divined,  Sir  Charles  Pomander  was 
after  her  himself. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Yr.s,  Sir   Charles    was  after   Miss 
Wdfdngton.      I  use  that  phrase  be- 


cause it  is  a  fine  generic  one,  suitable 
to  different  kinds  of  love-making. 

Mr.  Vane's  sentiments  were  an  in- 
explicable compound;  but  respect, 
enthusiasm,  and  deep  admiration  were 
the  uppermost. 

The  good  Sir  Charles  was  no  enig- 
ma :  he  had  a  vacancy  in  his  estab- 
lishment, —  a  very  high  situation,  too, 
for  those  who  like  that  sort  of  thing, 

the  head  of  his  table,  his  left  hand 
when  he  drove  in  the  Park,  &c.  To 
this  he  proposed  to  promote  Miss  Wof- 
fington. She  was  handsome  and  witty, 
and  he  liked  her.  But  that  was  not 
what  caused  him  to  pursue  her;  slow, 
sagacious,  inevitable,  as  a  beagle. 

She  was  celebrated,  and  would  con- 
fer great  eclat  on  him.  The  scandal 
of  possessing  her  was  a  burning  temp- 
tation. Women  admire  celebrity  in 
a  man  ;  but  men  adore  it  in  a  woman. 

•  The  world,"  says  Philip,  "  is  a  famous  man  ; 
What  will  not  women  love  so  taught  ?  " 

I  will  try  to  answer  this  question. 

The  women  will  more  readily  for- 
give disgusting  physical  deformity  for 
Fame's  sake  than  we.  They  would 
embrace  with  more  rapture  a  famous 
orang-outang,  than  we  an  illustrious 
chimpanzee ;  but  when  it  comes  to 
moral  deformity  the  tables  are  turned. 

Had  the  Queen  pardoned  Mr.  Green- 
acre  and  Mrs.  Manning,  would  the 
great  rush  have  been  on  the  hero,  or 
the  heroine  ?  Why,  on  Mrs.  Mac- 
beth !  To  her  would  the  blackguards 
have  brought  honorable  proposals, 
and  the  gentry  liberal  ones. 

Grcenacre  would  have  found  more 
female  admirers  than  I  ever  shall ; 
bat  the  grand  stream  of  sexual  admi- 
ration would  have  set  Mariawards. 
This  fact  is  as  dark  as  night ;  but  it 
is  as  sure  as  the  sun. 

The  next  day  "  the  friends  "  (most 
laughable  of  human  substantives !) 
met  in  the  theatre,  and  again  visited 
the  green-room  ;  and  this  time  Vane 
determined  to  do  himself  more  jus- 
tice. He  was  again  disappointed ; 
the  actress's  manner  was  ceremoni- 
ously polite.  She  was  almost  con- 


28 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


stantly  on  the  stage,  and  in  a  hum- 
when  off  it ;  and,  when  there  was  a 
word  to  be  got  with  her,  the  ready, 
glib  Sir  Charles  was  sure  to  get  it. 
Vane  could  not  help  thinking  it  hard 
that  a  man  who  professed  no  respect 
for  her  should  thus  keep  the  light 
from  him  ;  and  he  could  hardly  con- 
ceal his  satisfaction  when  Pomander, 
at  night,  bade  him  farewell  for  a  fort- 
night. Pressing  business  took  Sir 
Charles  into  the  country. 

The  good  Sir  Charles,  however, 
could  not  go  without  leaving  his 
sting  behind  as  a  companion  to  his 
friend.  He  called  on  Mr.  Vane,  and 
after  a  short  preface,  containing  the 
words  •'  our  friendship,"  "  old  kind- 
ness," "my  greater  experience,"  he 
gravely  warned  him  against  Mrs. 
Woflfington. 

"  Not  that  I  would  say  this  if  you 
could  take  her  for  what  she  is,  and 
amuse  yourself  with  her  as  she  will 
with  you,  if  she  thinks  it  worth  her 
while.  But  I  see  you  have  a  heart, 
and  she  will  make  a  football  of  it, 
and  torment  you  beyond  all  you  have 
ever  conceived  of  human  anguish." 

Mr.  Vane  colored  high,  and  was 
about  to  interrupt  the  speaker;  but 
he  continued :  — 

"  There,  I  am  in  a  hum-.  But 
ask  Quin,  or  anybody  who  knows  her 
history,  you  will  find  she  has  had 
scores  of  lovers,  and  no  one  remains 
her  friend  after  they  part." 

"  Men  are  such  villains  !  " 

"  Very  likely,"  was  the  reply ; 
"but  twenty  men  don't  ill-use  one 
good  woman  :  those  are  not  the  pro- 
portions. Adieu  ! " 

This  last  hit  frightened  Mr.  Vane, 
he  began  to  look  into  himself;  he 
could  not  but  feel  that  he  was  a  mere 
child  in  this  woman's  hands ;  and, 
more  than  that,  his  conscience  told 
him  that,  if  his  heart  should  be  made 
a  football  of,  it  would  only  he  a  just 
and  probable  punishment.  For  there 
were  particular  reasons  why  he,  of  all 
men,  had  no  business  to  look  twice  at 
any  woman  whose  name  was  Wof- 
fington. 


That  night  he  avoided  the  green- 
room, though  he  could  not  forego  the 
play;  but  the  next  night  he  deter- 
mined to  stay  at  home  altogether. 
Accordingly,  at  five  o'clock,  the  as- 
tounded box-keeper  wore  a  visage  of 
dismay,  —  there  was  no  shilling  for 
him  !  and  Mr.  Vane's  nigh»ly  shilling 
had  assumed  the  sanctity  of  "salary  in 
his  mind. 

Mr.  Vane  strolled  disconsolate  ;  he 
strolled  by  the  Thames,  he  strolled 
up  and  down  the  Strand ;  and,  final- 
ly, having  often  admired  the  wisdom 
of  moths  in  their  gradual  approach  to 
what  is  not  good  for  them,  he  strolled 
into  the  green-room,  Covent  Garden, 
and  sat  down.  When  there  he  did 
not  feel  happy.  Besides,  she  had  al- 
ways been  cold  to  him,  and  had  given 
no  sign  of  desiring  his  acquaintance, 
still  less  of  recognition. 

Mr.  Vane  had  often  seen  a  weather- 
cock at  work,  and  he  had  heard  a 
woman  compared  to  it ;  but  he  had 
never  realized  the  simplicity,  beauty, 
and  justice  of  the  simile.  He  was 
therefore  surprised,  as  well  as  thrilled, 
when  Mrs.  Womngton,  so  cool,  cere- 
monious, and  distant  hitherto,  walked 
up  to  him  in  the  green-room  with  a  face 
quite  wreathed  in  smiles,  and,  with- 
out preliminary,  thanked  him  for  all 
the  beautiful  flowers  he  had  sent  her. 

"What,  Mrs.  Womngton, — what, 
you  recognize  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  and  have  been  foolish 
enough  to  feel  quite  supported  by  the 
thought  I  had  at  least  one  friend  in 
the  house.  But,"  said  she,  looking 
down,  "  now  you  must  not  be  angry  ; 
here  are  some  stones  that  have  fallen 
somehow  among  the  flowers,  I  am 
going  to  give  you  them  back,  because 
I  value  flowers,  so  I  cannot  have 
them  mixed  with  anything  else;  but 
don't  ask  me  for  a  flower  back,"  add- 
ed she,  seeing  the  color  mount  on 
his  face,  "  for  I  would  not  give  one 
of  them  to  you,  or  anybody." 

Imagine  the  effect  of  this  on  a  ro- 
mantic disposition  like  Mr.  Vane's. 

He  told  her  how  glad  he  was  that 
she  could  distinguish  his  features 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


29 


amidst  the  crowd  of  her  admirers  ;  he 
confessed  he  had  been  mortified  when 
he  found  himself,  as  he  thought,  en- 
tirely a  stranger  to  her. 

She  interrupted  him. 

"  Do  you  know  your  friend  Sir 
Charles  Pomander  ?  No  !  I  am  al- 
most sure  you  do ;  well,  he  is  a  man 
I  do  not  like.  He  is  deeeitful,  besides 
he  is  a  wieked  man.  There,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  he  was  watching  me 
all  that  night,  the  first  time  you  came 
here,  and,  because  I  saw  he  was 
watching  me,  I  would  not  know  who 
you  were,  nor  anything  about  you." 

"  But  you  looked  as  if  you  had 
never  seen  me  before." 

"  Of  course  I  did,  when  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to,"  said  the  ac- 
tress, naively. 

"  Sir  Charles  has  left  London  for  a 
fortnight,  so,  if  he  is  the  only  obsta- 
cle, I  hope  you  will  know  me  every 
night." 

"  Why,  you  sent  me  no  flowers 
yesterday  or  to-day." 

"  But  I  will  to-morrow." 

"  Then  I  am  sure  I  shall  know 
your  face  again  :  good  by.  Won't 
you  see  me  in  the  last  act,  and  tell 
me  how  ill  I  do  it  ?  " 

"  O  yes  !  "  and  he  hurried  to  his 
box,  and  so  the  actress  secured  one 
pair  of  hands  for  her  last  act. 

He  returned  to  the  green-room,  but 
she  did  not  revisit  that  verdant  bow- 
er. The  next  night,  after  the  usual 
compliments,  she  said  to  him,  looking 
down  with  a  sweet,  engaging  air :  — 

"  I  sent  a  messenger  into  the  coun- 
try to  know  about  that  lady." 

"  What  lady  ?  "  said  Vane,  scarce- 
ly believing  his  senses. 

"  That  you  were  so  unkind  to  me 
about." 

"  I,  unkind  to  you  ?  what  a  brute 
I  must  be  !  " 

"  My  meaning  is,  you  justly  re- 
buked me,  only  you  should  not  tell 
an  actress  she  has  no  heart,  —  that  is 
always  understood.  Well,  Sir  Charles 
Pomander  said  she  married  a  third  in 
two  months !  " 

"And  did  she?" 


"  No,  it  was  in  six  weeks ;  that  man 
never  tells  the  truth  ;  and  since  then 
she  has  married  a  fourth." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it !  " 

"  So  am  I,  since  you  awakened  my 
conscience." 

Delicious  flattery !  and  of  all  flat- 
tery the  sweetest,  when  a  sweet  crea- 
ture does  flattery,  not  merely  utters 
it. 

After  this,  Vane  made  no  more 
struggles  ;  he  surrendered  himself  to 
the  charming  seduction,  and  as  his 
advances  were  respectful,  but  ardent 
and  incessant,  he  found  himself  at  the 
end  of  a  fortnight  Mrs.  Woffington's 
professed  lover. 

They  wrote  letters  to  each  other 
every  day.  On  Sunday  they  went  to 
church  together  in  the  morning,  and 
spent  the  afternoon  in  the  suburbs 
wherever  grass  was  and  dust  was  not 

In  the  next  fortnight,  poor  Vane 
thought  he  had  pretty  well  fathomed 
this  extraordinary  woman's  character. 
Plumb  the  Atlantic  with  an  eighty- 
fathom  line,  sir ! 

"  She  is  religious,"  said  he,  "  she 
loves  a  church  much  better  than  a 
playhouse,  and  she  never  laughs  nor 
goes  to  sleep  in  church  as  I  do.  And 
she  is  breaking  me  of  swearing,  — by 
degrees.  She  says  that  no  fashion 
can  justify  what  is  profane,  and  that 
it  must  be  vulgar  as  well  as  wicked. 
And  she  is  frankness  and  simplicity 
itself." 

Another  thing  that  charmed  him 
was  her  disinterestedness.  She  or- 
dered him  to  buy  her  a  present  every 
day,  but  it  was  never  to  cost  above  a 
shilling.  If  an  article  could  be  found 
that  cost  exactly  ten  pence  (a  favorite 
sum  of  hers),  she  was  particularly 
pleased,  and  these  shilling  presents 
were  received  with  a  flush  of  pleasure 
and  brightening  eyes  :  but  when  one 
day  he  appeared  with  a  diamond 
necklace,  it  was  taken  very  coldly,  he 
was  not  even  thanked  for  it,  and  he 
was  made  to  feel,  once  for  all,  that 
the  tenpenny  ones  were  the  best  in- 
vestments towards  her  favor. 

Then  he  found  out  that  she  was 


30 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


very  prudent  and  rather  stingy ;  of 
Spartan  simplicity  in  her  diet,  and  a 
scorner  of  dress  off  the  stage.  To  re- 
deem this  she  was  charitable,  and  her 
charity  and  her  economy  sometimes 
had  a  sore  fight,  during  which  she 
was  peevish,  poor  little  soul. 

One  day  she  made  him  a  request. 

"  I  can't  bear  you  should  think  me 
worse  than  I  am,  and  I  don't  want 
you  to  think  me  better  than  I  am." 

Vane  tremhled. 

"  But  don't  speak  to  others  about 
me;  promise,  and  I  will  promise  to 
tell  you  my  whole  story,  whenever 
you  are  entitled  to  such  a  confidence." 

"  When  shall  I  be  entitled  to  it  ?  " 

"  When  I  am  sure  you  love  me." 

"  Do  you  doubt  that  now  1 " 

"  Yes  !  I  think  you  love  me,  but 
I  am  not  sure." 

"  Margaret,  remember  I  have  known 
you  much  longer  than  you  have  known 
me." 

"  No ! " 

"  Yes  !  Two  months  before  we 
ever  spoke  I  lived  upon  your  face  and 
voice. 

"  That  is  to  say  you  looked  from 
your  box  at  me  upon  the  stage,  and 
did  not  I  look  from  the  stage  at 
you  ?  " 

"  Never  !  you  always  looked  at  the 
pit,  and  my  heart  used  to  sink." 

"On  the  17th  of  May  you  first 
came  into  that  box.  I  noticed  you  a 
little,  the  next  day  I  noticed  you  a 
little  more  ;  I  saw  you  fancied  you 
liked  me,  after  a  while  I  could  not 
have  played  without  you." 

Here  was  delicious  flattery  again, 
and  poor  Vane  believed  every  word 
of  it. 

As  for  her  request  and  her  promise, 
she  showed  her  wisdom  in  both  these. 
As  Sir  Charles  observed,  it  is  a  won- 
derful point  gained  if  you  allow  a 
woman  to  tell  her  story  her  own  way. 

How  the  few  facts  that  are  allowed 
to  remain  get  moulded  and  twisted 
out  of  ugly  forms  into  pretty  shapes 
by  those  supple,  dexterous  fingers  ! 

This  present  story  cannot  give  the 
life  of  Mrs.  Woffington,  but  only  one 


great  passage  therein,  as  do  the  epic 
and  dramatic  writers  ;  but  since  there 
was  often  great  point  in  any  sentences 
spoken  on  important  occasions  by  this 
lady,  I  will  just  quote  her  defence  of 
herself.  The  reader  may  be  snre  she 
did  not  play  her  weakest  card ;  let 
us  give  her  the  benefit. 

One  day  she  and  Kitty  Clive  were 
at  it  ding-dong ;  the  green-room  was 
full  of  actors,  male  and  female,  but 
there  were  no  strangers,  and  the  ladies 
were  saying  things  which  the  men  of 
this  generation  only  think ;  at  last 
Mrs.  Woffington  finding  herself  rough- 
ly, and,  as  she  thought,  unjustly  han- 
dled, turned  upon  the  assembly  and 
said  :  "  What  man  did  ever  I  ruin  in 
all  my  life  ?  Speak  who  can  !  " 

And  there  was  a  dead  silence. 

"  What  woman  is  there  here  at  as 
much  as  three  pounds  per  week  even, 
that  has  n't  ruined  two  at  the  very 
least  ?  " 

Report  says  there  was  a  dead  si- 
lence again,  until  Mrs.  Clive  perked 
up,  and  said  she  had  only  ruined  one, 
and  that  was  his  own  fault ! 

Mrs.  Woffington  declined  to  attach 
weight  to  this  example.  "  Kitty 
Clive  is  the  hook  without  the  bait," 
said  she;  and  the  laugh  turned,  as  it 
always  did,  against  Peggy's  antago- 
nist. 

Thus  much  was  speedily  shown  to 
Mr.  Vane,  that,  whatever  were  Mrs. 
Woffington's  intentions  towards  him, 
interest  had  at  present  nothing  to  do 
with  them ;  indeed  it  was  mado  clear 
that,  even  were  she  to  surrender  her 
liberty  to  him,  it  would  only  be  as  a 
princess,  forging  golden  chains  for 
herself  with  her  own  royal  hand. 

Another  fortnight  passed  to  the  mu- 
tual satisfaction  of  the  lovers.  To 
Vane  it  was  a  dream  of  rapture  to  he 
near  this  great  creature,  whom  thou- 
sands admired  at  such  a  distance  ;  to 
watch  over  her,  to  take  her  to  the 
theatre  in  a  warm  shawl,  to  stand  at 
the  wing  and  receive  her  as  she  came 
radiant  from  her  dressing-room,"  to 
watch  her  from  her  rear  as  she  stood 
like  some  power  about  to  descend  on. 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


31 


the  stage,  to  see  her  falcon-like  stoop 
upon  the  said  stage,  and  hear  the 
burst  of  applause  that  followed,  as 
the  report  does  the  flash  ;  to  compare 
this  with  the  spiritless  crawl  with 
which  common  artists  went  on,  tame 
from  their  first  note  to  their  last ;  to 
take  her  hand  when  she  came  off,  feel 
how  her  nerves  were  strung  like  a 
greyhound's  after  a  race,  and  her 
whole  frame  in  a  high  even  glow,  with 
the  great  Pythoness  excitement  of 
art. 

And  to  have  the  same  great  crea- 
ture leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
and  listening  with  a  charming  com- 
placency, whilst  he  purred  to  her  of 
love  and  calm  delights,  alternate  with 
still  greater  triumphs ;  for  he  was  to 
turn  dramatic  writer,  for  her  sake  was 
to  write  plays,  a  woman  the  hero,  and 
love  was  to  inspire  him,  and  passion 
supply  the  want  of  pencraft.  (You 
make  me  laugh,  Mr.  Vane  ! ) 

All  this  was  heavenly. 

And  then  with  all  her  dash,  and 
fire,  and  bravado,  she  was  a  thorough 
woman. 

"  Margaret ! " 

"  Ernest ! " 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question. 
Did  you  really  cry  because  that  Miss 
Bellamy  had  dresses  from  Paris  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  seem  Very  likely." 

"  No,  but  tell  me ;  did  you  ? " 

"  Who  said  I  did  1 " 

"  Mr.  Cibber." 

"  Old  fool !  " 

"  Yes,  but  did  you  ?  " 

"  Did  I  what  ?  " 

"Cry!" 

''  Ernest,  the  minx's  dresses  were 
beautiful." 

"  No  doubt.     But  did  you  cry  1 " 

"  And  mine  were  dirty ;  I  don't 
care  about  gilt  rags,  but  dirty  dress- 
es, ugh  \ " 

"  Tell  me,  then." 

"  Tell  you  what  ?  " 

"  Did  you  cry  or  not  ?  " 

"  All !  he  wants  to  find  out  whether 
I  am  a  fool,  and  despise  me." 

"  No,  I  think  I  should  love  you 
better :  for  hitherto  I  have  seen  no 


weakness  in  you,  and  it  makes  me  un- 
comfortable. 

"  Be  comforted  !  Is  it  not  a  weak- 
ness to  like  you  1 " 

"  You  are  free  from  that  weakness, 
or  you  would  gratify  my  curiosity." 

"  Be  pleased  to  state,  in  plain,  in- 
telligible English,  what  you  require  of 
me." 

"  I  want  to  know,  in  one  word,  did 
you  cry  or  not  f  " 

"  Promise  to  tease  me  no  more 
then,  and  I  '11  tell  you." 

"  I  promise." 

"  You  won't  despise  me  ?  " 

"  Despise  you  !  of  course  not." 

"  Well,  then,  —  I  don't  remember! " 

On  another  occasion,  they  were 
seated  in  the  dusk,  by  the  side  of  the 
canal  in  the  Park,  when  a  little  ani- 
mal began  to  potter  about  on  an  ad- 
jacent bank. 

Mrs.  Woffington  contemplated  it 
with  curiosity  and  delight. 

"  O  you  pretty  creature  !  "  said 
she.  "  Now  you  are  a  rabbit :  at  least, 
I  think  so." 

"  No,"  said  Vane,  innocently;  "that 
is  a  rat." 

"  Ah  !  ah  !  ah !  "  screamed  Mrs. 
Woffington,  and  pinched  his  arm. 
This  frightened  the  rat,  who  disap- 
peared. She  burst  out  laughing: 
"  There  's  a  fool !  The  thing  did  not 
frighten  me,  and  the  name  did.  De- 
pend upon  it,  it 's  true  what  they  say, 

—  that,  off  the  stage,  I  am  the  great- 
est fool  there  is.     I  '11  never  be  so  ab- 
surd again.     Ah !  ah  !  ah  !  here  it  is 
again  "  (scream  and  pinch,  as  before). 
"  Do  take  me  from  this  horrid  place, 
where  monsters  come  from  the  great 
deep." 

And  she  flounced  away,  looking 
daggers  askant  at  the  place  the  rat 
had  vacated  in  equal  terror. 

All  this  was  silly,  but  it  pleases  us 
men,  and  contrast  is  so  charming  ! 
This  same  fool  was  brimful  of  talent, 

—  and  cunning,  too,  for  that  matter. 
She    played    late  that   night,  and 

Mr.  Vane  saw  the  same  creature, 
who  dared  not  stay  where  she  was  li- 
able to  a  distant  rat,  spring  upon  the 


32 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


stage  as  a  gay  rake,  and  flash  out  her 
rapier,  and  act  valor's  king  to  the 
life,  and  seem  ready  to  eat  up  every- 
body, King  Fear  included  ;  and  then, 
after  her  hrilliant  sally  upon  the  pub- 
lic, Sir  Harry  Wildair  came  and 
stood  beside  Mr.  Vane. 

Her  bright  skin,  contrasted  with 
her  powdered  periwig,  became  daz- 
zling. '  She  used  little  rouge,  but  that 
little,  made  her  eyes  two  balls  of  black 
lightning.  From  her  high  instep  to  her 
polished  forehead,  all  was  symmetry. 
Her  leg  would  have  been  a  sculptor's 
glory ;  and  the  curve  from  her  waist 
to  her  knee  was  Hogarth's  line  itself. 

She  stood  like  Mercury  new  light- 
ed on  a  heaven-kissing  hill.  She 
placed  her  fopt  upon  the  ground,  as 
she  might  put  a  hand  upon  her  lover's 
shoulder.  We  indent  it  with  our 
eleven  undisguised  stone. 

Such  was  Sir  Harry  Wildair,  who 
stood  by  Mr.  Vane,  glittering  with 
diamond  buckles,  gorgeous  with  rich 
satin  breeches,  velvet  coat,  ruffles, 
pictce  vestis  et  auri ;  and  as  she  bent 
her  long  eye-fringes  down  on  him 
(he  was  seated),  all  her  fiery  charms 
gradually  softened  and  quivered  down 
to  womanhood. 

'•'  The  first  time  I  was  here,"  said 
Vane,  "  my  admiration  of  you  broke 
out  to  Mr.  Gibber ;  and  what  do  you 
think  he  said  ?  " 

"  That  you  praised  me,  for  me  to 
hear  you.  Did  you  ?  " 

"  Acquit  me  of  such  meanness." 

"  Forgive  me.  It  is  just  what  I 
should  have  done,  had  I  been  court- 
ing an  actress." 

"  I  think  you  have  not  met  many 
ingenuous  spirits,  dear  friend  ?  " 

"  Not  one,  my  child." 

This  was  a  phrase  she  often  ap- 
plied to  him  now. 

"  The  old  fellow  pretended  to  hear 
what  I  said,  too ;  and  I  am  sure  you 
did  not,  —  did  you  ?  " 

"  Guess." 

"  I  guess  not." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  plead  guilty. 
An  actress's  ears  are  so  quick  to  hear 
praise,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  did 


catch  a  word  or  two,  and,  '  It  told, 
sir,  —  it  told.'  " 

"  You  alarm  me  !  At  this  rate,  I 
shall  never  know  what  you  sec,  hear, 
or  think,  by  your  face." 

"  When  you  want  to  know  any- 
thing, ask  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  ; 
but  nobody  else  shall  learn  anything, 
nor  even  you,  any  other  way." 

"  Did  you  hear  the  feeble  tribute  of 
praise  I  was  paying  you,  when  you 
came  in  ?  "  inquired  Vane. 

"  No.  You  did  not  say  that  my 
voice  had  the  compass  and  variety  of 
nature,  and  my  movements  were  free 
and  beautiful,  whilst  the  others  when 
in  motion  were  stilts,  and  coffee-pots 
when  in  repose,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Something  of  the  sort,  I  believe," 
cried  Vane,  laughing. 

"  I  melted  from  one  fine  statue  into 
another,  I  restored  the  Antinous  to 
his  true  sex.  —  Goose  !  —  Painters 
might  learn  their  art  from  me  (in  my 
dressing-room,  no  doubt),  and  orators 
revive  at  my  lips  the  music  of  Ath- 
ens, that  quelled  mad  mobs  and  prin- 
ces drunk  with  victory.  —  Silly  fel- 
low !  —  Praise  was  never  so  sweet  to 
me,"  murmured  she,  inclining  like  a 
goddess  of  love  towards  him  ;  and  he 
fastened  on  two  velvet  lips,  that  did 
not  shun  the  sweet  attack,  but  gently 
parted  with  a  heavenly  sigh  ;  while 
her  heaving  bosom  and  yielding 
frame  and  swimming  eyes  confessed 
her  conqueror. 

That  morning  Mr.  Vane  had  been 
dispirited,  and  apparently  self-discon- 
tented; but  at  night  he  went  home 
in  a  state  of  mental  intoxication. 
His  poetic  enthusiasm,  his  love,  his 
vanity,  were  all  gratified  at  once. 
And  all  these,  singly,  have  conquered 
Prodence  and  Virtue  a  million  times. 
.  She  had  confessed  to  him  that  she 
was  disposed  to  risk  her  happiness  on 
him  ;  she  had  begged  him  to  submit 
to  a  short  probation  ;  and  she  had 
promised,  if  her  confidence  and  es- 
teem remained  unimpaired  at  the  close 
of  that  period,  — which  was  not  to  be 
an  unhappy  one,  —  to  take  advantage 
of  the  summer  holidays,  and  cross  the 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


33 


water  with  him,  and  forget  everything 
in  the  world  with  him,  but  love. 

How  was  it  that  the  very  next 
morning  clouds  chased  one  another 
across  his  face  ?  Was  it  that  men  are 
happy  but  while  the  chase  is  doubt- 
ful ?  Was  it  the  letter  from  Poman- 
der announcing  his  return,  and  sneer- 
ingly  inquiring  whether  he  was  still 
I!IL>  dupe  of  Peg  Woffington  ?  or  was 
it  that  same  mysterious  disquiet  which 
attacked  him  periodically,  and  then 
gave  way  for  a  while  to  pleasure  and 
her  golden  dreams  1 

The  next  day  was  to  be  a  day  of 
delight.  He  was  to  entertain  her  at 
his  own  house ;  and,  to  do  her  honor, 
he  had  asked  Mr.  Gibber,  Mr.  Quin, 
and  other  actors,  critics,  &c. 

Our  friend,  Sir  Charles  Pomander, 
had  been  guilty  of  two  ingenuities : 
first,  he  had  written  three  or  four  let- 
ters, full  of  respectful  admiration,  to 
Mrs.  Woffington,  of  whom  he  spoke 
slightingly  to  Vane  ;  second,  he  had 
made  a  discngenuous  purchase. 

This  purchase  was  Pompey,  Mrs. 
Woffington 's  little  black  slave.  It  is 
a  horrid  fact,  but  Pompey  did  not 
love  his  mistress  :  he  was  a  little  en- 
amored of  her,  as  small  boys  are  apt 
to  be,  but,  on  the  whole,  a  sentiment 
of  hatred  slightly  predominated  in  his 
little  black  bosom. 

It  was  not  without  excuse. 

This  lady  was  subject  to  two  un- 
pleasant companions,  —  sorrow  and 
bitterness.  About  twice  a  week  she 
would  cry  for  two  hours ;  and  after 
this  class  of  fit  she  generally  went 
abroad,  and  made  a  round  of  certain 
poor  or  sick  protege's  she  had,  and  re- 
turned smiling  and  cheerful. 

But  other  twice  a  week  she  might 
be  seen  to  sit  upon  her  chair,  con- 
tracted into  half  .her  size,  and  look- 
ing daggers  at  the  universe  in  gen- 
eral, the  world  in  particular  ;  and  on 
these  occasions,  it  must  be  owned, 
she  stayed  at  home,  and  sometimes 
whipped  Pompey. 

Pompey  had  not  the  sense  to  reflect 
that  he  ought  to  have  been  whipped 
every  day,  or  the  esprit -de  corps  to  be 
2* 


consoled  by  observing  that  this  sort 
of  thing  did  his  mistress  good.  What 
he  felt  was,  that  his  mistress,  who  did 
everything  well,  whipped  him  with 
energy  and  skill ;  it  did  not  take  ten 
seconds,  but  still,  in  that  brief  period, 
Pompey  found  himself  dusted  and 
polished  off. 

The  sacred  principle  of  justice  was 
as  strong  in  Mrs.  Woffington  as  in 
the  rest  of  her  sex ;  she  had  not  one 
grain  of  it.  When  she  was  not  in  her 
tantrums,  the  mischievous  imp  was  as 
sacred  from  check  or  remonstrance  as 
a  monkey,  or  a  lap-dog  ;  and  several 
female  servants  left  the  house  on  his 
account. 

But  Nemesis  overtook  him  in  the 
way  we  have  hinted,  and  it  put  his 
little  black  pipe  oat. 

The  lady  had  taken  him  out  of 
great  humanity ;  he  was  fed  like  a 
game-cock,  and  dressed  like  a  Bar- 
baric prince ;  and  once  when  he  was 
ill  his  mistress  watched  him,  and 
nursed  him,  and  tended  him  with  the 
same  white  hand  that  plied  the  ob- 
noxious whip ;  and  when  he  died, 
she  alone  withheld  her  consent  from 
his  burial,  and  this  gave  him  a  chance 
black  boys  never  get,  and  he  came  to 
again ;  but  still  these  tarnation  lick- 
ings "  stuck  in  him  gizzard."  So 
when  Sir  Charles's  agent  proposed  to 
him  certain  silver  coins,  cheap  at  a  lit- 
tle treachery,  the  ebony  ape  grinned 
till  he  turned  half-ivory,  and  became 
a  spy  in  the  house  of  his  mistress. 

The  reader  will  have  gathered  that 
the  good  Sir  Charles  had  been  quietly 
in  London  some  hours  before  he  an- 
nounced himself  as  paulo  post  futurum. 

Diamond  cut  diamond ;  a  diplo- 
matic stole  this  march  upon  an  ac- 
tress, and  took  her  black  pawn.  One 
for  Pomander !  (Gun.) 


CHAPTER  IV. 

TRIPLET,  the  Cerberus  of  art,  who 
had  the  first  bark  in  this  legend,  and 
has  since  been  out  of  hearing,  ran 
C 


PEG  WOFFIXGTOX. 


from  Lambeth  to  Covcnt  Garden,  on 
receipt  of  Mr.  Vane's  note.  But  ran 
he  never  so  quick,  he  had  built  :i  full- 
sized  castle  in  the  air  before  he  reached 
Bow  Street. 

The  letter  hinted  at  an  order  upon 
his  muse  for  amatory  verse ;  delight- 
ful task,  cheering  prospect. 

Bid  a  man  whose  usual  lot  it  is  to 
break  stones  for  the  parish  at  ten- 
pence  the  cubic  yard,  —  bid  such  an 
one  play  at  marbles  with  some  stone 
taws  for  half  an  hour  per  day,  and 
pocket  one  pound  one,  —  bid  a  poor 
horse  who  has  drawn  those  stones 
about,  and  browsed  short  grass  by  the 
wayside,  —  bid  him  canter  a  few  times 
round  a  grassy  ring,  and  then  go  to 
his  corn,  —  in  short,  bid  Kosinante 
change  with  Pegasus,  and  you  do  no 
more  than  Mr.  Vane's  letter  held  out 
to  Triplet. 

The  amatory  verse  of  that  day  was 
not  up-hill  work.  There  was  a  beat- 
en track  on  a  dead  level,  and  you  fol- 
lowed it.  You  told  the  tender  crea- 
ture, with  a  world  of  circumlocution, 
that,  "  without  joking  now,"  she  was 
a  leper,  ditto  a  tigress,  item  marble. 
You  next  feigned  a  lucid  interval,  and 
to  be  on  the  point  of  detesting  your 
monster,  but  in  twenty  more  verses 
love  became,  as  usual,  stronger  than 
reason,  and  you  wound  up  your  rot- 
ten yarn  thus  :  — 

You  hugged  a  golden  chain.  You 
drew  deeper  into  vour  wound  a 
barbed  shaft,  like  —  fany  wild  animal 
will  do,  no  one  of  them  is  such  an 
ass,  so  you  had  an  equal  title  to  all)  : 
and  on  looking  back  you  saw  with 
horrible  complacency  that  you  had 
inflicted  one  hundred  locusts,  five  feet 
long,  upon  oppressed  humanity. 

Wont  to  travel  over  acres  of  canvas 
for  a  few  shillings,  and  roods  of  paper 
on  bare  speculation,  Triplet  knew  he 
could  make  a  thousand  a  year  at  the 
above  work  without  thinking. 

He  came  therefore  to  the  box-keeper 
with  his  eyes  glittering. 

"  Mr.  Vane  1 " 

"Just  gone  out  with  a  gentleman." 

"  I  '11  wait  then." 


Now  Mr.  Vane,  we  know,  was  in 
the  green-room,  and  went  home  by 
the  stage-door.  The  last  thing  he 
thought  of  was  poor  Triplet ;  the  rich 
do  not  dream  how  they  disappoint  the 
poor.  Triplet's  castle  fell  as  many  a 
predecessor  had.  When  the  lights 

!  were  put  out,  he  left  the  theatre  with 
a  bitter  sigh. 

"  If  this  gentleman  knew  how  many 
sweet  children  I  have,  and  what  a 
good,  patient,  suffering  wife,  sure  he 
would  not  have  chosen  me  to  make  a 
fool  of!  **  said  the  poor  fellow  to  him- 
self. 

In  Bow  Street,  he  turned,  and 
looked  back  upon  the  theatre.  How 
gloomy  and  grand  it  loomed  ! 

"  Ah ! "  thought  he,  "  if  I  could  but 
conquer  yon ;  and  why  not  ?  All 
history  shows  that  nothing  is  uncon- 

i  querable  except  perseverance.     Han- 

|  nibal  conquered  the  Alps,  and  I'll 
conquer  you,"  cried  Triplet,  firmly. 
"  Yes,  this  visit  is  not  lost ;  here  I 
register  a  vow :  I  will  force  my  way 
into  that  mountain  of  masonry,  or 
perish-  in  the  attempt." 

Triplet's  most  unpremeditated 
thoughts  and  actions  often  savored 

|  ridiculously  of  the  sublime.  Then 
and  there,  gazing  with  folded  arms 
on  this  fortress  of  Thespis,  the 

I  polytechnic  man  organized  his  first 
assault.  The  next  evening  he  made 
it 

Five  months  previously  he  had  sent 
the  manager  three  great,  large  trage- 
dies. He  knew  the  aversion  a  theat- 

!  rical  manager  has  to  read  a  manuscript 
plav,  not  recommended  by  influential 
folk ;  an  aversion  which  always  has 
been  carried  to  superstition.  So  he 

{  hit  on  the  following  scheme :  — 

He  wrote  Mr.  Rich  a  letter;  in 
this  he  told  Mr.  Rich  that  he  (Trip- 

I  let)  was  aware  what  a  quantity  of 
trash  is  offered  every  week  to  a  mana- 
ger, how  disheartening  it  must  be  to 
read  it  at  all,  and  how  natural,  after 
a  while,  to  read  none.  Therefore, 
he  (Triplet)  had  provided  that  Mr. 
Hich  might  economize  his  time,  and 
vet  not  remain  in  iyiiorance  of  the 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


35 


dramatic  treasure  that  lay  ready  to 
his  hand. 

"  The  soul  of  a  play,"  continued 
Triplet,  "  is  the  plot  or  fable.  A 
gentleman  of  your  experience  can  de- 
cide at  once  whether  a  plot  or  story  is 
one  to  take  the  public  !  " 

So  then  he  drc\v  out,  in  full,  the 
three  plots.  He  wrote  these  plots  in 
verse !  Heaven  forgive  us  all,  he 
really  did.  There  were  also  two 
margins  left ;  on  one,  which  was  nar- 
row, he  jotted  down  the  locale  per 
page  of  the  most  brilliant  passages  ; 
on  the  other  margin,  which  was  as 
wide  as  the  column  of  the  plot,  he 
made  careful  drawings  of  the  person- 
ages in  the  principal  dramatic  situa- 
tions ;  scrolls  issued  from  their  mouths, 
on  which  were  written  the  words  of 
fire  that  were  flowing  from  each  in 
these  eruptions  of  the  dramatic  action. 
All  was  referred  to  pages  in  the  man- 
uscripts. 

"  By  this  means,  sir,"  resumed  the 
latter,  "  you  will  gut  my  fish  in  a 
jiffy;  permit  me  to  recall  that  expres- 
sion, with  apologies  for  my  freedom. 
I  would  say,  you  will,  in  a  few  min- 
/utes  of  your  valuable  existence,  skim 
the  cream  of  Triplet." 

This  author's  respect  for  the  mana- 
ger's time  carried  him  into  further 
and  unusual  details. 

"  Breakfast,"  said  he,  "  is  a  qniet 
meal.  Let  me  respectfully  suggest, 
that  by  placing  one  of  my  plots  on 
the  table,  with,  say,  the  sugar-basin 
upon  it  (this,  again,  is  a  mere  sugges- 
tion), and  the  play  it  appertains  to  on 
your  other  side  ;  you  can  readily  judge 
my  work  without  disturbing  the  avo- 
cations of  the  day,  and  master  a  play 
in  the  twinkling  of  a  teacup ;  forgive 
my  facetiousness.  This  day  month, 
at  ten  of  the  clock,  I  shall"  expect," 
said  Triplet,  with  sudden  severity, 
"  sir,  your  decision  !  " 

Then,  gliding  back  to  the  courtier, 
he  formally  disowned  all  special  title 
to  the  consideration  he  expected  from 
Mr.  Rich's  well-known  courtesy  ;  still 
he  begged  permission  to  remind  that 
gentleman,  that  he  had  six  years  ago 


painted  for  him  a  large  scene,  illumi- 
nated by  two  great  poetical  incidents : 
a  red  sun,  of  dimensions  never  seen 
out  of  doors  in  this  or  any  country ; 
and  an  ocean  of  sand,  yellower  than 
up  to  that  time  had  been  attained  in 
art  or  nature ;  and  that  once,  when 
the  audience,  late  in  the  evening,  had 
suddenly  demanded  a  popular  song 
from  Mr.  Nokes,  he  (Triplet)  seeing 
the  orchestra  thinned  by  desertion, 
and  nugatory  by  intoxication,  had 
started  from  the  pit,  resuscitated  with 
the  whole  contents  of  his  snuff-box 
the  bass  fiddle,  snatched  the  leader's 
violin,  and  carried  Mr.  Nokes  tri- 
umphantly through ;  that  thunders 
of  applause  had  followed,  and  Mr. 
Xokes  had  kindly  returned  thanks 
forboth  ;  but  that  he  (Triplet)  had  has- 
tily retired  to  evade  the  manager's 
acknowledgments,  preferring  to  wait 
an  opportunity  like  the  present,  when 
both  interests  could  be  conciliat- 
ed, &c. 

This  letter  he  posted  at  its  destina- 
tion, to  save  time,  and  returned  trium- 
phant home.  He  had  now  forgiven 
and  almost  forgotten  Vane ;  and  had 
reflected  that,  after  all,  the  drama  was 
his  proper  walk. 

.  "  My  dear,"  said  he  to  Mrs.  Trip- 
let, "  this  family  is  on  the  eve  of  a 
great  triumph  !  "  Then,  inverting 
that  order  of  the  grandiloquent  and 
the  homely  which  he  invented  in  our 
first  chapter,  he  proceeded  to  say  :  "  I 
have  reared  in  a  single  day  a  new  ave- 
nue by  which  histrionic  greatness,  hith- 
erto obstructed,  may  become  accessi- 
ble. "Wife,  I  think  I  have  done  the 
trick  at  last.  Lysimachus  !  "  added  he, 
"  let  a  libation  be  poured  out  on  so  smil- 
ing an  occasion,  and  a  burnt-offering 
rise  to  propitiate  the  celestial  powers. 
Run  to  the  '  Sun,'  you  dog.  Three 
pennyworth  of  ale,  and  a  hap'orth  o' 
tobacco." 

Ere  the  month  was  out,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  the  Triplets  were  reduced  to  a 
state  of  beggary.  Mrs.  Triplet's  health 
had  long  been  failing  ;  and,  although 
her  duties  at  her  little  theatre  were 
light  and  occasional,  the  manager  was 


36 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


obliged   to  discharge  her,  since    she 
could  not  be  depended  upon. 

The  family  had  not  enough  to  eat ! 
Think  of  that !  They  were  not  warm 
at  night,  and  they  felt  gnawing  and 
faintness  often  by  day.  Think  of 
that ! 

Fortune  was  unjust  here.  The  man  j 
was  laughable,  and  a  goose ;  and  had 
no  genius  either  for  writing,  painting, 
or  acting ;  but  in  that  he  resembled 
most  writers,  painters,  and  actors  of 
his  own  day  and  ours.  He  was  not 
beneath  'the  average  of  what  men  call 
art,  and  it  is  art's  antipodes,  —  tread- 
mill artifice. 

Other  fluent  ninnies  shared  gain, 
and  even  fame,  and  were  called  '  pen- 
men,' in  Triplet's  day.  Other  rant- 
ers were  quietly  getting  rich  by  noise. 
Other  liars  and  humbugs  were  paint- 
ing out  o'  doors  in-doors,  and  eating 
mutton  instead  of  thistles  for  drenched 
stinging  -  nettles,  yclept  trees ;  for 
block-tin  clouds  ;  for  butlers'  pantry 
seas,  and  garret-conceived  lakes ;  for 
molten  sugar-candy  rivers  ;  for  airless 
atmosphere  and  sunless  air ;  for  carpet 
nature,  and  cold,  dead  fragments  of  an 
earth  all  soul  and  living  glory  to  every 
cultivated  eye  but  a  routine  painter's. 
Yet  the  man  of  many  such  mediocri- 
ties could  not  keep  the  pot  boiling. 
We  suspect  that,  to  those  who  would 
rise  in  life,  even  strong  versatility  is  a 
very  doubtful  good,  and  weak  versa- 
tility ruination. 

At  last,  the  bitter,  weary  month 
was  gone,  and  Triplet's  eye  bright- 
ened gloriously.  He  donned  his  best 
suit ;  and,  whilst  tying  his  cravat,  lec- 
tured his  family.  First,  he  compli- 
mented them  upon  their  deportment 
in  adversity ;  hinted  that  moralists, 
not  experience,  had  informed  him 
prosperity  was  far  more  trying  to  the 
character.  Put  them  all  solemnly  on 
their  guard  down  to  Lucy,  atat  five, 
that  they  were  morituri  and  re,  and 
must  be  pleased  to  abstain  from  "  inso- 
lent gladness  "  upon  his  return. 

"  Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity  ! " 
continued  this  cheerful  monitor.  "If 
we  had  not  been  hard  up  this  while, 


we  should  not  come  with  a  full  relish 
to  meat  three  times  a  week,  which, 
unless  I  am  an  ass  (and  I  don't  see 
myself  in  that  light),"  said  Triplet, 
dryly,  "will,  I  apprehend,  be,  after 
this  day,  the  primary  condition  of  our 
future  existence." 

"  James,  take  the  picture  with  you," 
said  Mrs.  Triplet,  in  one  of  "those 
calm,  little,  desponding  voices  that  fall 
upon  the  soul  so  agreeably  when  one 
is  a  cock-a-hoop,  and  desires,  with  per- 
mission, so  to  remain. 

"  What  on  earth  am  I  to  take  Mrs. 
\Voftington's  portrait  for  1  " 

"  We  have  nothing  in  the  house," 
said  the  wife,  blushing. 

Triplet's  eye  glittered  like  a  rattle- 
snake s. 

"  The  intimation  is  eccentric,"  said 
he.  "  Are  you  mad,  Jane  1  Pray," 
continued  he,  veiling  his  wrath  in 
scornful  words,  "is  it  requisite,  hero- 
ic, or  judicious  on  the  eve,  or  more 
correctly  the  morn,  of  affluence  to  de- 
posit an  unfinished  work  of  art  with  a 
mercenary  relation  ?  Hang  it,  Jane ! 
would  you  really  have  me  pawn  Mrs. 
Woflington  to-day  ?  " 

"  James,"  said  Jane,  steadily,  "  the 
manager  may  disappoint  you,  we  have 
often  been  disappointed ;  so  take  the 
picture  with  you.  They  will  give  you 
ten  shillings  on  it." 

Triplet  was  of  those  who  see  things 
roseate,  Mrs.  Triplet  lurid. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  poet,  "  for  the 
first  time  in  our  conjugal  career,  your 
commands  deviate  so  entirely  from 
reason,  that  I  respectfully  withdraw 
that  implicit  obedience  which  has 
hitherto  constituted  my  principal  rep- 
utation. I  'm  hanged  if  I  do  it, 
Jane  !  " 

"  Dear  James,  to  oblige  me  !  " 

"  That  alters  the  case  ;  you  confess 
it  is  unreasonable  1 " 

"  O  yes  !  it  is  only  to  oblige  me." 

"  Enough ! "  said  Triplet,  whose 
tongue  was  often  a  flail  that  fell  on 
friend,  foe,  and  self  indiscriminately. 
"  Allow  it  to  be  unreasonable,  and  I 
do  it  as  a  matter  of  course,  —  to  please 
you,  Jane." 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


37 


Accordingly  the  good  soul  wrapped 
it  in  green  baize ;  but  to  relieve  his 
mind  he  was  obliged  to  get  behind  his 
wife,  and  shrug  his  shoulders  to  Ly- 
simachus  and  the  eldest  girl,  as  who 
should  say  voila  bien  une  femme  volre 
mere  a  vous  ! 

At  last  he  was  off,  in  high  spirits. 
He  reached  Co  vent  Garden  at  half- 
past  ten,  and  there  the  poor  fellow 
was  sucked  into  our  narrative  whirl- 
pool. 

We  must,  however,  leave  him  for  a 
few  minutes. 


CHAPTER    V. 

SIR  CHARLES  POMANDER  was  de- 
tained in  the  country  much  longer 
than  he  expected. 

He  was  rewarded  by  a  little  adven- 
ture. As  he  cantered  up  to  London 
with  two  servants  and  a  post-boy,  all 
riding  on  horses  ordered  in  relays  be- 
forehand, he  came  up  with  an  ante- 
diluvian coach,  stuck  fast  by  the  road- 
side. Looking  into  the  window,  with 
the  humane  design  of  quizzing  the 
elders  who  should  be  there,  he  saw  a 
Young  lady  of  surpassing  beauty. 
This  altered  the  case  ;  Sir  Charles  in- 
stantly drew  bridle  and  offered  his 
services. 

The  lady  thanked  him,  and  being 
an  innocent  country  lady,  she  opened 
those  sluices,  her  eyes,  and  two  tears 
gently  trickled  down,  while  she  told 
him  how  eager  she  was  to  reach  Lon- 
don, and  how  mortified  at  this  de- 
lay. 

The  good  Sir  Charles  was  touched. 
He  leaped  his  horse  over  a  hedge,  gal- 
loped to  a  farm-house  in  sight,  and  re- 
turned with  ropes  and  rustics.  These 
and  Sir  Charles's  horses  soon  drew 
the  coach  out  of  some  stiffish  clay. 

The  lady  thanked  him,  and  thanked 
him,  and  thanked  him,  with  height- 
ening color  and  beaming  eyes,  and  he 
rode  away  like  a  hero. 

Before  he  had  gone  five  miles  he 
became  thoughtful  and  self-dissatis- 
fied, finally  his  remorse  came  to  a 


head ;  he  called  to  him  the  keenest  of 
his  servants,  Hunsdon,  and  ordered 
him  to  ride  back  past  the  carriage, 
then  follow  and  put  up  at  the  same 
inn,  to  learn  who  the  lady  was,  and 
whither  going ;  and,  this  knowledge 
gained,  to  ride  into  town  full  speed 
and  tell  his  master  all  about  it.  Sir 
Charles  then  resumed  his  complacen- 
cy, and  cantered  into  London  that 
same  evening. 

Arrived  there,  he  set  himself  in  ear- 
nest to  cut  out  his  friend  with  Mrs. 
Woffington.  He  had  already  caused 
his  correspondence  with  that  lady  to 
grow  warm  and  more  tender  by  de- 
grees. Keeping  a  copy  of  his  last,  he 
always  knew  where  he  was.  Cupid's 
barometer  rose  by  rule ;  and  so  he  ar- 
rived by  just  gradations  at  an  artful 
climax,  and  made  her  in  terms  of 
chivalrous  affection,  an  offer  of  a 
house,  &c.,  three  hundred  a  year,  &c., 
not  forgetting  his  heart,  &c.  He 
knew  that  the  ladies  of  the  stage  have 
an  car  for  flattery  and  an  eye  to  the 
main  chance. 

The  good  Sir  Charles  felt  sure  that, 
however  she  might  flirt  with  Vane  or 
others,  she  would  not  forego  a  posi- 
tion for  any  disinterested  jTenaiant. 
Still,  as  he  was  a  close  player,  he  de- 
termined to  throw  a  little  cold  water 
on  that  flame.  His  plan,  like  every- 
thing truly  scientific,  was  simple. 

"  I  '11  run  her  down  to  him,  and  ridi- 
cule him  to  her,"  resolved  this  faithful 
friend  and  lover  dear. 

He  began  with  Vane.  He  found 
him  just  leaving  his  own  house.  Af- 
ter the  usual  compliments,  some  such 
dialogue  as  this  took  place  between 
Telemachus  and  pseudo  Mentor  :  — 

"  I  trust  you  are  not  really  in  the 
power  of  this  actress  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  slave  of  a  word,"  re- 
plied Vane.  "  Would  you  confound 
black  and  white  because  both  are  col- 
ors ?  She  is  like  that  sisterhood  in 
nothing  but  a  name.  Even  on  the 
stage  they  have  nothing  in  common. 
They  are  puppets,  —  all  attitude  and 
trick :  she  is  all  ease,  grace,  and 
nature." 


38 


PEG  -WOFFINGTON. 


"Nature!"  cried  Pomander.  "Lais- 
sez-moi  tranquille.  They  have  artifice, 
—  nature's  libel.  She  has  art,  —  na- 
ture's counterfeit." 

"  Her  voice  is  truth  told  by  mu- 
sic," cried  the  poetical  lover ;  "  theirs 
are  jingling  instruments  of  false- 
hood." 

"  They  are  all  instruments,"  said 
the  satirist ;  "  she  is  rather  the  best 
tuned  and  played." 

"  Her  face  speaks  in  every  linea- 
ment ;  theirs  are  rouged  and  wrinkled 
masks." 

"  Her  mask  is  the  best  made, 
mounted,  and  moved ;  that  is  all." 

"  She  is  a  fountain  of  true  feel- 
ing." 

"  No ;  a  pipe  that  conveys  it  with- 
out spilling  or  holding  a  drop." 

"  She  is  an  angel  of  talent,  sir." 

"  She  's  a  devil  of  deception." 

"  She  is  a  divinity  to  worship." 

"  She 's  a  woman  to  fight  shy  of. 
There  is  not  a  woman  in  London  bet- 
ter known,"  continued  Sir  Charles. 
"  She  is  a  fair  actress  on  the  boards, 
and  a  great  actress  off  them ;  but  I 
can  tell  you  how  to  add  a  new  charm 
to  her." 

"  Heaven  can  only  do  that,"  said 
Vane,  hastily. 

"  Yes,  you  can.  Make  her  blush. 
Ask  her  for  the  list  of  your  predeces- 
sors.'' 

Vane  winced  visibly.  He  quick- 
ened his  step,  as  if  to  get  rid  of  this 
gadfly. 

"  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Quin,"  said  he, 
at  last;  "and  he,  who  has  no  preju- 
dice, paid  her  character  the  highest 
compliment." 

"  You  have  paid  it  the  highest  it 
admits,"  was  the  reply.  "  You  have 
let  it  deceive  you."  Sir  Charles  con- 
tinued in  a  more  solemn  tone  :  "  Pray 
be  warned.  Why  is  it  every  man  of 
intellect  loves  an  actress  once  in  his 
life,  ;ui(l  no  man  of  sense  ever  did  it 
twice  1  " 

This  last  hit,  coming  after  the 
carte  and  tierce  we  have  described, 
brought  an  expression  of  pain  to  Mr. 
Vane's  face.  He  said  abruptly  : 


"  Excuse  me,  I  desire  to  be  alone  for 
half  an  hour." 

Macliiavel  bowed ;  and,  instead  of 
taking  offence,  said,  in  a  tone  full  of 
feeling:  "Ah!  I  give  you  pain! 
But  you  are  right ;  think  it  calmly 
over  awhile,  and  you  will  sec  I  ad- 
vise you  well." 

He  then  made  for  the  theatre,  and 
the  weakish  personage  he  had  been 
playing  upon  walked  down  to  the 
river,  almost  ran,  in  fact.  He  want- 
ed to  be  out  of  sight. 

He  got  behind  some  houses,  and 
then  his  face  seemed  literally  to  break 
loose  from  confinement ;  so  anxious, 
sad,  fearful,  and  bitter  were  the  ex- 
pressions that  coursed  each  other  over 
that  handsome  countenance. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  these  hot 
and  cold  fits  ?  It  is  not  Sir  Charles 
who  has  the  power  to  shake  Mr. 
Vane  so  without  some  help  from 
within.  There  is  something  wrong  about 
this  man  ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MACHIAVEL  entered  the  green- 
room, intending  to  wait  for  Mrs. 
Woffington,  and  carry  out  the  second 
part  of  his  plan. 

He  knew  that  weak  minds  cannot 
make  head  against  ridicule,  and  with 
this  pickaxe  he  proposed  to  clear  the 
way,  before  he  came  to  grave,  sensi- 
ble, business  love  with  the  lady. 
Machiavel  was  a  man  of  talent.  If 
he  has  been  a  silent  personage  hither- 
to, it  is  merely  because  it  was  not  his 
cue  to  talk,  but  listen  ;  otherwise,  he 
was  rather  a  master  of  the  art  of 
speech.  He  could  be  insinuating,  el- 
oquent, sensible,  or  satirical,  at  will. 
This  personage  sat  in  the  green-room. 
In  one  hand  was  his  diamond  snuff- 
box, in  the  other  a  richly  laced  hand- 
kerchief ;  his  clouded  cane  reposed 
by  his  side. 

There  was  an.  air  of  success  about 
this  personage.  The  gentle  reader, 
however  conceited  a  dog,  could  not 
see  how  he  was  to. defeat  Sir  Charles, 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


39 


who  was  tall,  stout,  handsome,  rich, 
witty,  self-sufficient,  cool,  majestic, 
courageous,  and  in  whom  were  unit- 
ed the  advantages  of  a  hard  head,  a 
tough  stomach,  and  no  heart  at  all. 

This  great  creature  sat  expecting 
Mrs.  Woffington,  like  Olympian  Jove 
awaiting  Juno.  But  he  was  mortal 
after  all  ;  for  suddenly  the  serenity 
of  that  adamantine  countenance  was 
disturbed  ;  his  eye  dilated  ;  his  grace 
and  dignity  were  shaken.  He  hud- 
dled his  handkerchief  into  one  pocket, 
his  snuff-box  into  another,  and  for- 
got his  cane.  He  ran  to  the  door  in 
unaffected  terror. 

Where  are  all  his  fine  airs  before  a 
real  danger  ?  Love,  intrigue,  diplo- 
macy, were  all  driven  from  his  mind ; 
for  he  beheld  that  approaching,  which 
is  the  greatest  peril  and  disaster 
known  to  social  man.  He  saw  a  bore 
coming  into  the  room  ! 

In  a  wild  thirst  for  novelty,  Po- 
mander had  once  penetrated  to  Good- 
man's Fields  Theatre;  there  he  had 
unguardedly  put  a  question  to  a  car- 
penter behind  the  scene  ;  a  seedy- 
black  poet  instantly  pushed  the  car- 
penter away  (down  a  trap  it  is 
thought),  and  answered  it  in  seven 
pages,  and '  in  continuation  was  so 
vaguely  communicative,  that  he  drove 
Sir  Charles  back  into  the  far  west. 

Sir  Charles  knew  him  again  in  a 
moment,  and  at  sight  of  him  bolted. 
They  met  at  the  door.  "  Ah !  Mr. 
Triplet!"  said  the  fugutivc,  "en- 
chanted—  to  wish  you  good  morn- 
ing !  "  and  he  plunged  into  the  hid- 
ing-places of  the  theatre. 

"  That  is  a  very  polite  gentleman  ! " 
thought  Triplet.  He  was  followed 
by  the  call-boy,  to  whom  he  was  ex- 
plaining that  his  avocations,  though 
numerous,  would  not  prevent  his 
paying  Mr.  Rich  the  compliment  of 
waiting  all  day  in  his  green-room, 
sooner  than  go  without  an  answer  to 
three  important  propositions,  in  which 
the  town  and  the  arts  were  con- 
cerned. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  said  the 
bey  of  business  to  the  man  of  words. 


"  Mr.  Triplet,"  said  Triplet. 

"  Triplet  ?  There  is  something 
for  you  in  the  hall,"  said  the  urchin, 
and  went  off  to  fetch  it. 

"  I  knew  it,"  said  Triplet  to  him- 
self; "  they  are  accepted.  There 's 
a  note  in  the  hall  to  fix  the  reading." 
He  then  derided  his  own  absurdity  in 
having  ever  for  a  moment  desponded. 
"Master  of  three  arts,  by  each  of 
which  men  gi-ow  fat,  how  was  it 
possible  he  should  starve  all  his 
days !  " 

He  enjoyed  a  natural  vanity  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  came  more 
generous  feelings.  What  sparkling 
eyes  there  would  be  in  Lambeth  to- 
day !  The  butcher,  at  sight  of  Mr. 
Rich's  handwriting,  would  give  him 
credit  Jane  should  have  a  new 
gown. 

But  when  his  tragedies  were  played, 
and  he  paid  !  El  Dorado !  His  chil- 
dren should  be  the  neatest  in  the 
street.  Lysimachus  and  Roxalana 
should  learn  the  English  language, 
cost  what  it  might ;  sausages  should 
be  diurnal ;  and  he  himself  would 
not  be  puffed  up,  fat,  lazy.  No !  he 
would  work  all  the  harder,  be  affable, 
as  ever,  and,  above  all,  never  swamp 
the  father,  husband,  and  honest  man 
in  the  poet  and  the  blackguard  of 
sentiment. 

Next  his  reflections  took  a  business 
turn. 

"  These  tragedies  —  the  scenery  ? 
0,  I  shall  have  to  paint  it  myself. 
The  heroes  ?  Well,  they  have  no- 
body who  will  play  them  as  I  should. 
(This  was  true!)  It  will  be  hard 
work,  all  this ;  but  then  I  shall  be 
paid  for  it.  I  cannot  go  on  this  way : 
I  must  and  will  be  paid  separately  for 
my  branches." 

Just  as  he  came  to  this  resolution, 
the,  boy  returned  with  a  brown-paper 
parcel,  addressed  to  Mr.  James  Trip- 
let. Triplet  weighed  it  in  his  hand  ; 
it  was  heavy.  "  How  is  this  ?  "  cried 
he.  "  O,  I  see,"  said  he,  "  these 
are  the  tragedies.  He  sends  them  to 
me  for  some  trifling  alterations :  man- 
agers always  do.  Triplet  then  d3- 


40 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


termined  to  adopt  these  alterations, 
if  judicious  ;  for,  argued  he,  sensibly 
enough :  "  Managers  are  practical 
men  :  and  we,  in  the  heat  of  composi- 
tion, sometimes  (sic?)  say  more  than 
is  necessary,  and  become  tedious." 

With  that  he  opened  the  parcel, 
and  looked  for  Mr.  Rich's  communi- 
cation ;  it  was  not  in  sight.  He  had 
to  look  between  the  leaves  of  the  man- 
uscripts for  it ;  it  was  not  there.  He 
shook  them ;  it  did  not  fall  out.  He 
shook  them  as  a  dog  shakes  a  rabbit ; 
nothing ! 

The  tragedies  were  returned  with- 
out a  word.  It  took  him  some  time 
to  realize  the  full  weight  of  the  blow ; 
but  at  last  he  saw  that  the  manager 
of  the  Theatre  Royal,  Covent  Gar- 
den, declined  to  take  a  tragedy  by 
Triplet  into  consideration  or  bare  ex- 
amination. 

He  turned  dizzy  for  a  moment. 
Something  between  a  sigh  and  a  cry 
escaped  him,  and  he  sank  upon  a  cov- 
ered bench  that  ran  along  the  wall. 
His  poor  tragedies  fell  here  and  there 
upon  the  ground,  and  his  head  went 
down  upon  his  hands,  which  rested 
on  Mrs.  Woffington's  picture.  His 
anguish  was  so  sharp,  it  choked  his 
breath  ;  when  he  recovered  it,  his  eye 
bent  down  upon  the  picture.  "Ah, 
Jane,"  he  groaned,  "  you  know  this 
villanous  world  better  than  I ! "  He 
placed  the  picture  gently  on  the  seat  j 
(that  picture  must  now  be  turned 
into  bread),  and  slowly  stooped  for 
his  tragedies  ;  they  had*  fallen  hither 
and  thither ;  he  had  to  crawl  about 
for  them  ;  he  was  an  emblem  of  all 
the  humiliations  letters  endure. 

As  he  went  after  them  on  all-fours, 
more  than  one  tear  pattered  on  the 
dusty  floor.  Poor  fellow !  he  was 
Triplet,  and  could  not  have  died 
without  tingeing  the  death-rattle  with 
some  absurdity ;  but,  after  all,  he  was 
a  father  driven  to  despair ;  a  castle- 
builder,  with  his  work  rudely  scat- 
tered ;  «n  artist,  brutally  crushed  and 
insulted  by  a  greater  dunce  than  him- 
self. 
Faint,  sick,  and  dark,  he  sat  a  mo- 


ment on  the  seat  before  he  could  find 
strength  to  go  home  and  destroy  all 
the  hopes  he  had  raised. 

Whilst  Triplet  sat  collapsed  on  the 
bench,  fate  sent  into  the  room  all  in 
one  moment,  as  if  to  insult  his  sor- 
row, a  creature  that  seemed  the  god- 
dess of  gayety,  impervious  to  a  care. 
She  swept  in  with  a  bold,  free  step, 
for  she  was  rehearsing  a  man's  part, 
and  thundered  without  rant,  but  with 
a  spirit  and  fire,  and  pace,  beyond 
the  conception  of  our  poor  tame  ac- 
tresses of  1852,  these  lines  :  — 

"  Now,  by  the  joys 

Which  my  soul  still  has  uncontrolled  pursued, 
I  would  not  turn  aside  from  my  least  pleasure, 
Though  all  thy  force  were  armed  to  bar  my 

way  ; 
But,   like   the  birds,  great  Nature's  happy 

commoners, 
Rifle  the  sweets  —  " 

"  I  beg  —  your  par — don,  sir  !  " 
holding  the  W>ok  on  a  level  with  her 
eye,  she  had  nearly  run  over  "  two 
poets  instead  of  one." 

"  Nay,  madam,"  said  Triplet,  ad- 
miring, though  sad,  wretched,  but  po- 
lite, "pray  continue.  Happy  the 
hearer,  and  still  happier  the  author 
of  verses  so  spoken.  Ah  !  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lady,  "  if  you 
could  persuade  authors  what  we  do 
for  them,  when  we  coax  good  mu- 
sic to  grow  on  barren  words.  Are 
you  an  author,  sir  ?  "  added  she,  sly- 
ly. 

"  In  a  small  way,  madam.  I  have 
here  three  trifles,  —  tragedies." 

Mrs.  Woffington  looked  askant  at 
them,  like  a  shy  mare. 

"  Ah,  madam  !  "  said  Triplet,  in 
one  of  his  insane  fits,  "  if  I  might  but 
submit  them  to  such  a  judgment  as 
yours  ? " 

He  laid  his  hand  on  them.  It  was 
as  when  a  strange  dog  sees  us  go  to 
take  up  a  stone. 

The  actress  recoiled. 

"  I  am  no  judge  of  such  things," 
cried  she,  hastily. 

Triplet  bit  his  lip.  He  could  have 
killed  her.  It  was  provoking,  people 
would  'rather  be  hung  than  read  a 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


manuscript.  Yet  what  hopeless  trash 
they  will  read  in  crowds,  which  was 
manuscript  a  day  ago.  Les  imbeciles ! 

"  No  more  is  the  manager  of  this 
theatre  a  judge  of  such  things,"  cried 
the  outraged  quill-driver,  bitterly. 

"  What !  has  he  accepted  them  ?  " 
said  needle-tongue. 

"  No,  madam,  he  has  had  them  six 
months,  and  see,  madam,  he  has  re- 
turned them  me  without  a  word." 

Triplet's  lip  trembled. 

"  Patience,  my  good  sir,"  was  the 
merry  reply.  "  Tragic  authors  should 
possess  that,  for  they  teach  it  to  their 
audiences.  Managers,  sir,  are  like 
Eastern  monarchs,  inaccessible  but  to 
slaves  and  sultanas.  Do  you  know  I 
called  upon  Mr.  Rich  fifteen  times 
before  I  could  see  him  1  " 

"  You,  madam "?     Impossible  !  " 

"  O,  it  was  years  ago,  and  he  has 
paid  a  hundred  pounds  for  each  of 
those  little  visits.  Well,  now,  let  me 
see,  fifteen  times ;  you  must  write 
twelve  more  tragedies,  and  then  he 
will  read  one;  and  when  he  has  read 
it,  he  will  favor  you  with  his  judg- 
ment upon  it ;  and  when  you  have 
got  that,  you  will  have  what  all  the 
world  knows  is  not  worth  a  farthing. 
He!  he!  he1. 

'  And    like   the  birds,  gay  Nature's  happy 

commoners,   - 
Rifle  the  sweets'  —  mum — mum  —  mum." 

Her  high  spirits  made  Triplet  sad- 
der. To  think  that  one  word  from 
this  laughing  lady  would  secure  his 
work  a  hearing,  and  that  he  dared 
not  ask  her.  She  was  up  in  the 
world,  he  was  down.  She  was  great, 
he  was  nobody.  He  felt  a  sort  of  chill 
at  this  woman,  —  all  brains  and  no 
heart.  He  took  his  picture  and  his 
plays  under  his  arms  and  crept  sor- 
rowfully away. 

The  actress's  eye  fell  on  him  as  he 
went  off  like  a  fifth  act.  His  Don 
Quixote  face  struck  her.  She  had 
seen  it  before. 

"  Sir,"  said  she. 

"Madam,"  said  Triplet,  at  the 
door. 


"  We  have  met  before.  There,  don't 
speak,  I  '11  tell  you  who  you  are. 
Yours  is  a  face  that  has  been  good  to 
me,  and  I  never  forget  them." 

"  Me,  madam ! "  said  Triplet,  ta- 
ken aback.  "  I  trust  I  know  what 
is  due  to  you  better  than  to  be  good 
to  you,  madam,"  said  he,  in  his  con- 
fused way. 

"  To  be  sure !  "  cried  she,  "  it  is 
Mr.  Triplet,  good  Mr.  Triplet ! " 
And  this  vivacious  dame,  putting  her 
book  down,  seized  both  Triplet's  hands 
and  shook  them. 

He  shook  hers  warmly  in  return 
out  of  excess  of  timidity,  and  dropped 
tragedies,  and  kicked  at  them  convul- 
sively when  they  were  down,  for  fear 
they  should  be  in  her  way,  and  his 
mouth  opened,  and  his  eyes  glared. 

"  Mr.  Triplet,"  said  the  lady,  "  do 
you  remember  an  Irish  orange-girl 
you  used  to  give  sixpence  to  at  Good- 
man's Fields,  and  pat  her  on  the  head 
and  give  her  good  advice,  like  a  good 
old  soul  as  you  were  1  She  took  the 
sixpence." 

"  Madam,"  said  Trip,  recovering 
a  grain  of  pomp,  "  singular  as  it  may 
appear,  I  remember  the  young  per- 
son ;  she  was  very  engaging.  I  trust 
no  harm  hath  befallen  her,  for  me- 
thought  I  discovered,  in  spite  of  her 
brogue,  a  beautiful  nature  in  her." 

"  Go  along  wid  your  blarney,"  an- 
swered a  rich  brogue ;  "  an'  is  it  the 
comanther  ye  'd  be  putting  on  poor 
little  Peggy  1 " 

"  Oh !  oh  gracious  ! "  gasped  Trip- 
let. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply ;  but  into 
that  "  yes "  she  threw  a  whole  sen- 
tence of  meaning.  "  Fine  cha-ney 
oranges  ! "  chanted  she,  to  put  the 
matter  beyond  dispute. 

"Am  I  really  so  honored  as  to  have 
patted  you  on  that  queen-like  head ! " 
and  he  glared  at  it. 

"  On  the  same  head  which  now  I 
wear,"  replied  she,  pompously.  "  I 
kept  it  for  the  convaynience  hintirely, 
only  there ''s  more  in  it.  Well,  Mr. 
Triplet,  you  see  what  time  has  done 
for  me ;  now  tell  me  whether  he  has 


42 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


been  as  kind  to  you :  are  yon  going  to 
speak  to  me,  Mr.  Triplet  ?  " 

As  a  decayed  hunter  stands  lean 
and  disconsolate,  head  poked  forward 
like  a  goose's,  but  if  hounds  sweep  by 
his  paddock  in  full  cry,  followed  by 
horses  who  are  what  he  was  not,  he 
does  by  reason  of  the  good  blood 
that  is "  and  will  be  in  his  heart,  dum 
spiritus  hoss  regit  artus,  cock  his  ears, 
erect  his  tail,  and  trot  fiery  to  his 
extremes!  hedge,  and  look  over  it, 
nostril  distended,  mane  flowing,  and 
neigh  the  hunt  onward  like  a  trum- 
pet ;  so  Triplet,  who  had  manhood  at 
bottom,  instead  of  whining  out  his 
troubles  in  the  ear  of  encouraging 
beauty,  as  a  sneaking  spirit  would, 
perked  up,  and  resolved  to  put  the 
best  face  upon  it  all  before  so  charm- 
ing a  creature  of  the  other  sex. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  cried  he,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  could  have  smacked 
his  lips,  "  Providence  has  blessed  me 
with  an  excellent  wife  and  four 
charming  children.  My  wife  was 
Miss  Chatterton  :  you  remember 
her  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  Where  is  she  playing 
now  ?  " 

"  Why,  madam,  her  health  is  too 
weak  for  it." 

"  Oh  !  —  You  were  scene-painter. 
Do  you  still  paint  scenes  ?  " 

"  With  the  pen,  madam,  not  the 
brush  :  as  the  wags  said,  I  transferred 
the  distemper  from  my  canvas  to  my 
imagination."  And  Triplet  laughed 
uproariously. 

When  he  had  done,  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton,  who  had  joined  the  laugh,  in- 
quired quietly  whether  his  pieces  had 
met  with  success. 

f  "  Eminent  —  in  the  closet ;  the 
stage  is  to  come !  "  and  he  smiled 
absurdly  again. 

The  lady  smiled  back. 

"  In  short,"  said  Triplet,  recapitu- 
lating, "  being  blessed  with  health, 
and  more  tastes  in  the  arts  than  most, 
and  a  cheerful  spirit,  I  should  be 
wrong,  madam,  to  repine;  and  this 
day,  in  particular,  is  a  happy  one," 
added  the  rose  colorist,  "since  the 


great  Mrs.  Woffington  has  deigned  to 
remember  me,  and  call  me  friend." 

Such  was  Triplet's  summary. 

Mrs.  Woffington  drew  out  her 
memorandum-book,  and  took  down 
her  summary  of  the  crafty  Triplet's 
facts.  So  easy  is  it  for  us  Triplets  to 
draw  the  wool  over  the  eyes  of  women 
and  Woffingtons. 

"  Triplet,  discharged  from  scene- 
painting  ;  wife,  no  engagement ;  four 
children  supported  by  his  pen,  — 
that  is  to  say,  starving;  lose  no 
time ! " 

She  closed  her  book;  and  smiled, 
and  said :  — 

"  I  wish  these  things  were  comedies 
instead  of  trash-edies,  as  the  French 
call  them ;  we  would  cut  one  in  half, 
and  slice  away  the  finest  passages, 
and  then  I  would  act  in  it :  and  you 
would  see  how  the  stage-door  would 
fly  open  at  sight  of  the  author." 

"  O  Heaven  !  "  said  poor  Trip,  ex- 
cited by  this  picture.  "  I  '11  go  home, 
and  write  a  corned)'  this  moment." 

"  Stay  !  "  said  she ;  "  yon  had  bet- 
ter leave  the  tragedies  with  me." 

"  My  dear  madam !  You  will 
read  them  ? " 

"  Ahem  !  I  will  make  poor  Rich 
read  them." 

"  But,  madam,  he  has  rejected 
them." 

"  That  is  the  first  step.  Reading 
them  comes  after,  when  it  conies  at 
all.  What  have  you  got  in  that 
green  baize  ? " 

"  In  this  green  baize  ?  " 

"  Well,  in  this  green  baize,  then." 

"  O  madam  !  nothing  —  nothing ! 
To  tell  the  truth,  it  is  an  adventurous 
attempt  from  memory.  I  saw  you 
play  Silvia,  madam  ;  I  was  so 
charmed,  that  I  came  every  night. 
I  took  your  face  home  with  me,  — 
forgive  my  presumption,  madam,  — 
and  I  produced  this  faint  adumbra- 
tion, which  I  expose  with  diffidence." 

So  then  he  took  the  green  baize  off. 

The  color  rushed  into  her  face ; 
she  was  evidently  gratified.  Poor, 
silly  Mrs.  Triplet  was  doomed  to  be 
right  about  this  portrait. 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


43 


"I  will  give  you  a  sitting,"  said 
she.  "  You  will  find  painting  dull 
faces  a  better  trade  than  writing  dull 
tragedies.  Work  for  other  people's 
vanity,  not  your  own ;  that  is  the  art 
of  art.  And  now  I  want  Mr.  Trip- 
let's address." 

"  On  the  fly-leaf  of  each  work,  mad- 
am," replied  that  florid  author, 
"  and  also  at  the  foot  of  every  page 
which  contains  a  particularly  brilliant 
passage,  I  have  been  careful  to  insert 
the  address  of  James  Triplet,  painter, 
actor,  and  dramatist,  and  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington's  humble,  devoted  servant." 
He  bowed  ridiculously  low,  and 
moved  towards  the  door;  but  some- 
thing gushed  across  his  heart,  and  he 
returned  with  long  strides  to  her. 
"  Madam  ! "  cried  he,  with  a  jaunty 
manner,  "  you  have  inspired  a  son 
of  Thespis  with  dreams  of  eloquence, 
you  have  tuned  in  a  higher  key  a 
poet's  lyre,  you  have  tinged  a  paint- 
er's existence  with  brighter  colors, 
and  —  and  —  "  His  mouth  worked 
still,  but  no  more  artificial  words  would 
come.  He  sobbed  out,  "  and  God  in 
heaven  bless  you,  Mrs.  Wofiington ! " 
and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Woifington  looked  after  him 
with  interest,  for  this  confirmed  her 
suspicions ;  but  suddenly  her  expres- 
sion changed,  she  wore  a  look  we 
have  not  yet  seen  upon  her,  —  it  was 
a  half-cunning,  half-spiteful  look  ;  it 
was  suppressed  in  a  moment,  she  gave 
herself  to  her  book,  and  presently  Sir 
Charles  Pomander  sauntered  into  the 
room. 

"  Ah  !  what,  Mrs.  Woffington  here  ?  " 
said-  the  diplomate. 

"  Sir  Charles  Pomander,  I  declare !  " 
said  the  actress. 

"  I  have  just  parted  with  an  ad- 
mirer of  yours." 

"  I  wish  I  could  part  with  them 
all,"  was  the  reply. 

"  A  pastoral  youth,  who  means  to 
win  La  Wofiington  by,  agricultural 
courtship,  —  As  shepherds  woo  in 
sylvan  shades." 

"  With  oaten  pipe  the  rustic  maids," 


quoth  the  Woffington,  improvis- 
ing. 

The  diplomate  laughed,  the  actress 
laughed,  and  said,  laughingly :  "  Tell 
me  what  he  says  ward  for  word  ?  " 

"  It  will  only  make  you  laugh." 

"  Well,  and  am  I  never  to  laugh, 
who  provide  so  many  laughs  for  you 
all  ?  * 

"  C'est  juste.  You  shall  share  the 
general  merriment.  Imagine  a  ro- 
mantic soul,  who  adores  you  for  your 
simplicity  I " 

"  My-  simplicity  !  Am  I  so  very 
simple  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Sir  Charles,  monstrous 
dryly.  "  He  says  you  are  out  of 
place  on  the  stage,  and  wants  to  take 
the  star  from  its  firmament,  and  put 
it  in  a  cottage." 

"  I  am  not  a  star,"  replied  the 
Woffington,  "  I  am  only  a  meteor. 
And  what  does  the  man  think  I  am 
to  do  without  this  (here  she  imitated 
applause)  from  my  dear  public's 
thousand  hands  1  " 

"  You  are  to  have  this  "  (he  mim- 
icked a  kiss)  "  from  a  single  mouth, 
instead." 

"  He  is  mad  !  Tell  me  what  more 
he  says.  O,  don't  stop  to  invent ;  I 
should  detect  you ;  and  you  would 
only  spoil  this  man." 

He  laughed  conceitedly.  "  I  should 
spoil  him!  Well,  then,  he  proposes 
to  be  your  friend  rather  than  your 
lover,  and  keep  you  from  being  talked 
of,  he  !  he  !  instead  of  adding  to  your 
tdat." 

"And  if  he  is  your  friend,  why 
don't  you  tell  him  my  real  character, 
and  send  him  into  the  country  ?  " 

She  said  this  rapidly  and  with  an 
appearance  of  earnest.  The  diplo- 
matist fell  into  the  trap. 

"  I  do,"  said  he ;  "  but  he  snaps  his 
fingers  at  me  and  common  sense  and 
the  world.  I  really  think  there  is 
only  one  way  to  get  rid  of  him,  and 
with  him  of  every  annoyance." 

"  Ah  !  that  would  be  nice." 

"  Delicious  !  I  had  the  honor, 
madam,  of  laying  certain  proposals 
at  your  feet." 


44 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


"  Oh  !  yes,  —  your  letter,  Sir 
Charles.  I  have  only  just  had  time 
to  run  my  eye  down  it.  Let  us  ex- 
amine it  together.'' 

She  took  out  the  letter  with  a  won- 
derful appearance  of  interest,  and  the 
diplomate  allowed  himself  to  fall  into 
the  absurd  position  to  which  she  in- 
vited him.  They  put  their  two  heads 
together  over  the  letter. 

" '  A  coach,  a  country-house,  pin- 
money,'  —  and  I  'm  so  tired  of  houses 
and  coaches  and  pins.  Oh !  yes, 
here  's  something ;  what  is  tfeis  you 
offer  me,  up  in  this  corner  ?  " 

Sir  Charles  inspected  the  place 
carefully,  and  announced  that  it  was 
"his  heart." 

"  And  he  can't  even  write  it !  " 
said  she.  "  That  word  is  '  earth.' 
Ah  !  well,  you  know  best.  There  is 
your  letter,  Sir  Charles." 

.She  courtesied,  returned  him  the 
letter,  and  resumed  her  study  of  Lo- 
thario. 

"  Favor  me  with  your  answer, 
madam,"  said  her  suitor. 

"  Yon  have  it,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Madam,  I  don't  understand  your 
answer,"  said  Sir  Charles,  stiffly. 

"  I  can't  find  you  answers  and  un- 
derstandings too,"  was  the  lady-like 
reply.  "  You  must  beat  my  answer 
into  your  understanding  whilst  I  beat 
this  man's  verse  into  mine. 

'  And  like  the  birds,  &c.' » 

Pomander  recovered  himself  a  lit- 
tle ;  he  laughed  with  quiet  insolence. 
"  Tell  me,"  said  he,  "  do  you  really 
refuse  1  " 

"  My  good  soul,"  said  Mrs.  Wof- 
fingtQn,  "  why  this  surprise !  Are 
you  so  ignorant  of  the  stage  and  the 
world  as  not  to  know  that  I  refuse 
such  offers  as  yours  every  week  of  my 
life  ?  " 

"  I  know  better,"  was  the  cool  re- 
ply. She  left  it  unnoticed. 

"  I  have  so  many  of  these,"  con- 
tinued she,  "  that  1  have  begun  to 
forget  they  are  insults." 

At  this  word  the  button  broke  off 
Sir  Charles's  foil. 


"Insults,  madam!  They  arc  the 
highest  compliments  you  have  left  it 
in  our  power  to  pay  you." 

The  other  took  the  button  off  her 
foil. 

"  Indeed  !  "  cried  she,  with  well- 
feigned  surprise.  "  Oh  !  I  under- 
stand. To  be  your  mistress  could 
be  but  a  temporary  disgrace ;  to  be 
your  wife  would  be  a  lasting  dis- 
credit," she  continued.  "  And  now, 
sir,  having  played  your  rival's  game, 
and  showed  me  your  whole  hand  "  (a 
light  broke  in  upon  our  diplomate), 
"do  something  to  recover  the  repu- 
tation of  a  man  of  the  world.  A 
gentleman  is  somewhere  about  in 
whom  you  have  interested  me  by 
your  lame  satire ;  pray  tell  him 
I  am  in  the  green-room,  with  no 
better  companion  than  this  bad 
poet." 

Sir  Charles  clenched  his  teeth. 

"  I  accept  the  delicate  commis- 
sion," replied  he,  "  that  you  may 
see  how  easily  the  man  of  the  world 
drops  what  the  rustic  is  eager  to  pick 
up." 

"  That  is  better,"  said  the  actress, 
with  a  provoking  appearance  of  good- 
humor.  "  You  have  a  woman's 
tongue,  if  not  her  wit ;  but,  my  good 
soul,"  added  she,  with  cool  hauteur, 
"remember  you  have  something  to 
do  of  more  importance  than  anything 
you  can  say." 

"  I  accept  your  courteous  dismis- 
sal, madam,"  said  Pomander,  grind- 
ing his  teeth.  "  I  will  send  a  car- 
penter for  your  swain :  and  I  leave 
you." 

He  bowed  to  the  ground. 

"  Thanks  for  the  double  favor, 
good  Sir  Charles." 

She  courtesied  to  the  floor. 

Feminine  vengeance !  He  had 
come  between  her  and  her  love.  All 
very  clever,  Mrs.  Actress ;  but  was  it 
wise  ? 

"  I  am  revenged,"  thought  Mrs. 
Woffington,  with  a  little  feminine 
smirk. 

"  I  will  be  revenged,"  vowed  Po- 
mander, clenching  his  teeth. 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


45 


CHAPTER  VII. 

COMPARE  a  November  day  with  a 
May  clay.  They  are  not  more  unlike 
than  a  beautiful  woman  in  company 
with  a.  man  she  is  indifferent  to  or 
averse,  and  the  same  woman  with  the 
man  of  her  heart  by  her  side. 

At  sight  of  Mr.  Vane,  all  her  cold- 
ness and  nonchalance  gave  way  to  a 
gentle  complacency ;  and  when  she 
spoke  to  him,  her  voice,  so  clear  and 
"cutting  in  the  Intcassaiit  d'armes,  sank 
of  its  own  accord  into  the  most  tender, 
delicious  tone  imaginable. 

Mr.  Vane  and  she  made  love.  He 
pleased  her,  and  she  desired  to  please 
him.  My  reader  knows  her  wit,  her 
finesst,  her  fluency ;  but  he  cannot 
conceive  how  godlike  was  her  way 
of  making  love.  I  can  put  a  few  of 
the  corpses  of  her  words  upon  paper, 
but  where  are  the  heavenly  tones,  — 
now  calm  and  convincing,  now  soft 
and  melancholy,  now  thrilling  with 
tenderness,  now  glowing  with  the 
fiery  eloquence  of  passion  1  She  told 
him  that  she  knew  the  map  of  his 
face ;  that  for  some  days  past  he  had 
been  subject  to  an  influence  adverse 
to  her.  She  begged  him,  calmly,  for 
his  own  sake,  to  distrust  false  friends, 
and  judge  her  by  his  own  heart,  eyes, 
and  judgment.  He  promised  her  he 
would. 

"And  I  do  trust  you,  in  spite  of 
them  all,"  said  he  ;  "  for  your  face  is 
the  shrine  of  sincerity  and  candor.  I 
alone  know  you." 

Then  she  prayed  him  to  observe 
the  heartlessness  of  his  sex,  and  to 
say  whether  she  had  done  ill  to  hide 
the  riches  of  her  heart  from  the  cold 
and  shallow,  and  to  keep  them  all  for 
one  honest  mstn,  "  who  will  be  my 
friend,  I  hope,"  said  she,  "as  well  as 
my  lover." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Vane,  "  that  is  my 
ambition." 

"  We  actresses,"  said  she,  "  make 
good  the  old  proverb,  '  Many  lovers, 
but  few  friends.'  And  O,  't  is  we 
who  need  a  friend.  Will  you  be 
mine.? " 


Whilst  he  lived,  he  would. 

In  turn,  he  begged  her  to  be  gener- 
ous, and  tell  him  the  way  for  him, 
Ernest  Vane,  inferior  in  wit  and  ad- 
dress to  many  of  her  admirers,  to  win 
her  heart  from  them  all. 

This  singular  woman's  answer  is, 
I  think,  worth  attention. 

"  Never  act  in  my  presence  ;  never 
try  to  be  eloquent,  or  clever ;  never 
force  a  sentiment,  or  turn  a  phrase. 
Remember,  I  am  the  goddess  of  tricks. 
Do  not  descend  to  competition  with 
me  and  the  Pomanders  of  the  world. 
At  all  littlenesses,  you  will  ever  be 
awkward  in  my  eyes.  And  I  am  a 
woman.  I  must  have  a  superior  to 
love,  —  lie  open  to  my  eye.  Light 
itself  is  not  more  beautiful  than  the 
upright  man,  whose  bosom  is  open  to 
the  day.  O  yes  !  fear  not  you  will 
be  my  superior,  dear  ;  for  in  me  hon- 
esty has  to  struggle  against  the  habits 
of  my  art  and  life.  Be  simple  and 
sincere,  and  I  shall  love  you,  and 
bless  the  hour  you  shone  upon  my 
cold,  artificial  life.  Ah,  Ernest !  " 
said  she,  fixing  on  his  eyes  her  own, 
the  fire  of  which  melted  into  tender- 
ness as  she  spoke,  "  be  my  friend. 
Come  between  me  and  the  temptations 
of  an  unprotected  life,  —  the  reckless- 
ness of  a  vacant  heart." 

He  threw  himself  at  her  feet.  He 
called  her  an  angel.  He  told  her 
he  was  unworthy  of  her,  but  that  he 
would  try  and  deserve  her.  Then  he 
hesitated,  and  trembling  he  said  :  — 

"  I  will  be  frank  and  loyal.  Had  I 
not  better  tell  you  everything  ?  You 
will  not  hate  me  for  a  confession  I 
make  myself?  " 

"  I  shall  like  you  better,  —  oh !  so 
much  better ! " 

"  Then  I  will  own  to  you  —  " 

"  O,  do  not  tell  me  you  have  ever 
loved  before  me  !  I  could  not  bear  to 
hear  it !  "  cried  this  inconsistent  per- 
sonage. 

The  other  weak  creature  needed  no 
more. 

"  I  see  plainly  I  never  loved  but 
you,"  said  he. 

"  Let  me  hear  that  only ! "  cried 


46 


PEG   WOFFINGTON. 


she ;  "  I  am  jealons  even  of  the  past. 
Say  yon  never  loved  but  me :  never 
mind  whether  it  is  true.  My  child, 
you  do  not  even  yet  know  love.  Er- 
nest, shall  I  make  you  love,  —  as 
none  of  your  sex  ever  loved,  —  with 
heart,  and  brain,  and  breath,  and  life, 
and  soul  1  " 

With  these  rapturous  words,  she 
poured  the  soul  of  love  into  his  eyes ; 
he  forgot  everything  in  the  world  but 
her ;  he  dissolved  in  present  happiness 
and  vowed  himself  hers  forever :  and 
she,  for  her  pan,  bade  him  but  retain 
her  esteem  and  no  woman  ever  went 
further  in  love  than  she  would.  She 
was  a  true  epicure :  she  had  learned 
that  passion,  vulgar  in  itself,  is  god- 
like when  based  upon  esteem. 

This  tender  scene  was  interrupted 
by  the  call-boy,  who  brought  Mrs. 
Woffington  a  note  from  the  manager, 
informing  her  there  would  be  no  re- 
hearsal. This  left  her  at  liberty,  and 
she  proceeded  to  take  a  somewhat 
abrupt  leave  of  Mr.  Vane.  He  was 
endeavoring  to  persuade  her  to  let 
him  be  her  companion  until  dinner- 
time (she  was  to  be  his  guest),  when 
Pomander  entered  the  room. 

Mrs.  Woffington,  however,  was  not 
to  be  persuaded ;  she  excused  herself 
on  the  score  of  a  duty  which  she  said 
she  had  to  perform,  and  whispering 
as  she  passed  Pomander,  "  Keep  your 
own  counsel,"  she  went  out  rather 
precipitately. 

Vane  looked  slightly  disappointed. 

Sir  Charles,  who  had  returned  to 
see  whether  (as  he  fully  expected) 
she  had  told  Vane  everything,  —  and 
who,  at  that  moment,  perhaps,  would 
not  have  been  sorry  had  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton's  lover  called  him  to  serious  ac- 
count,—  finding  it  was  not  her  in- 
tention to  make  mischief,  and  not 
choosing  to  publish  his  own  defeat, 
dropped  quietly  into  his  old  line,  and 
determined  to  keep  the  lovers  in  sight, 
and  play  for  revenge.  He  smiled  and 
said  :  '•  My  good  sir,  nobody  can  hope 
to  monopolize  Mrs.  Woffington :  she 
has  others  to  do  justice  to  besides 
you." 


To  his  surprise,  Mr.  Vane  turned 
instantly  round  upon  him,  and,  look- 
ing him  haughtily  in  the  face,  said : 
"  Sir  Charles  Pomander,  the  settled 
malignity  with  which  you  pursue  that 
lady  is  unmanly  and  offensive  to  me, 
who  love  her.  Let  our  acquaintance 
cease  here,  if  you  please,  or  let  her  be 
sacred  from  your  venomous  tongue." 

Sir  Charles  bowed  stiffly,  and  re- 
plied, that  it  was  only  due  to  himself 
to  withdraw  a  protection  so  little  ap-  . 
preciated. 

The  two  friends  were  in  the  very 
act  of  separating  forever,  when  who 
should  run  in  but  Pompey,  the  rene- 
gade. He  darted  up  to  Sir  Charles, 
and  said :  "  Massa  Pomannah  she  in 
a  coach,  going  to  10,  Hercules  Build- 
ings. I  'm  in  a  hurry,  Massa  Poman- 
nah." 

"  Where  ?  "  cried  Pomander.  "  Say 
that  again. 

"  10,  Hercules  Buildings,  Lambeth. 
Me  in  a  hurry,  Massa  Pomannah." 

"  Faithful  child,  there 's  a  guinea 
forthee.  Fly!" 

The  slave  flew,  and,  taking  a  short 
cut,  caught  and  fastened  on  to  the 
slow  vehicle  in  the  Strand. 

"  It  is  a  house  of  rendezvous,"  said 
Sir  Charles,  half  to  himself,  half  to 
Mr.  Vane.  He  repeated  in  triumph  : 
"  It  is  a  house  of  rendezvous."  He 
then,  recovering  his  sangfroid,  and 
treating  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course, 
explained  that  at  10,  Hercules  Build- 
ings, was  a  fashionable  shop,  with  en- 
trances from  two  streets  ;  that  the  best 
Indian  scarfs  and  shawls  were  sold 
there,  and  that  ladies  kept  their  car- 
riages waiting  an  immense  time  in 
the  principal  street,  whilst  they  were 
supposed  to  be  in  the  shop,  or  the 
show-room.  He  then  went  on  to 
say  that  he  had  only  this  morning 
heard  that  the  intimacy  between  Mrs. 
Woffington  and  a  Colonel  Murth- 
waite,  although  publicly  broken  off  for 
prudential  reasons,  was  still  clandes- 
tinely carried  on.  She  had,  doubtless, 
slipped  away  to  meet  the  Colonel. 

Mr.  Vane  turned  pale. 

"  No !  I  will  not  suspect.    I  will 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


47 


not  dog  her  like  a  bloodhound,"  cried 
he. 

"  I  will !  "  said  Pomander. 

"  You  !     By  what  right  ?  " 

"  The  right  of  curiosity.  I  will 
know  whether  it  is  you  who  are  im- 
posed on  ;  or  whether  you  are  right, 
and  all  the  world  is  deceived  in  this 
woman." 

He  ran  out ;  but,  for  all  his  speed, 
when  he  got  into  the  street  there  was 
the  jealous  lover  at  his  elbow.  They 
darted  with  all  speed  into  the  Strand; 
got  a  coach.  Sir  Charles,  on  the  box, 
gave  Jehu  a  guinea,  and  took  the 
reins,  —  and  by  a  Niagara  of  whip- 
cord they  attained  Lambeth ;  and  at 
length,  to  his  delight,  Pomander  saw 
another  coach  before  him  with  a  gold- 
laced  black  slave  behind  it.  The 
coach  stopped ;  and  the  slave  came  to 
the  door.  The  shop  in  question  was 
a  few  hundred  yards  distant.  The 
adroit  Sir  Charles  not  only  stopped 
but  turned  his  coaeh,  and  let  the 
horses  crawl  back  towards  London  ; 
he  also  flagged  the  side  panels  to 
draw  the  attention  of  Mr.  Vane. 
That  gentleman  looked  through  the 
little  circular  window  at  the  back  of 
the  vehicle,  and  saw  a  lady  paying  the 
coachman.  There  was  no  mistaking 
her  figure.  This  lady,  then,  followed 
at  a  distance  by  her  slave,  walked  on 
towards  Hercules  Buildings ;  and  it 
was  his  miserable  fate  to  see  her  look 
uneasily  round,  and  at  last  glide  in  at 
a  side  door,  close  to  the  silk-mercer's 
shop. 

The  carriage  stopped.  Sir  Charles 
came  himself  to  the  door. 

"  Now,  Vane,"  said  he ;  "  before  I 
consent  to  go  any  further  in  this  busi- 
ness, you  must  promise  me  to  be  cool 
and  reasonable.  I  abhor  absurdity  ; 
and  there  must  be  no  swords  drawn 
for  this  little  hypocrite." 

"  I  submit  to  no  dictation,"  said 
Vane,  white  as  a  sheet. 

"  You  have  benefited  so  far  by  my 
knowledge,"  said  the  other,  politely ; 
•''  let  me,  who  am  self-possessed,  claim 
some  influence  with  you." 

"  Forgive  me !  "   said  poor   Vane. 


"  My  ang —  my  sorrow  that  such  an 
angel  should  be  a  monster  of  deceit." 
He  could  say  no  more. 

They  walked  to  the  shop. 

"  How  she  peeped,  this  way  and 
that,"  said  Pomander,  "  sly  little 
Wofly! 

"  No !  on  second  thoughts,"  said 
he,  "  it  is  the  other  street  we  must 
reconnoitre ;  and,  if  we  don't  see  her 
there,  we  will  enter  the  shop,  and  by 
dint  of  this  purse  we  shall  soon  untie 
the  knot  of  the  Woffington  riddle." 

Vane  leaned  heavily  on  his  tor- 
mentor. 

"  I  am  faint,"  said  he. 

"  Lean  on  me,  my  dear  friend," 
said  Sir  Charles.  "  Your  weakness 
will  leave  you  in  the  next  street." 

In  the  next  street  they  discovered 

—  nothing.     In  the  shop,  they  found 

—  no   Mrs.   Woffington.     They    re- 
turned to  the  principal  street.     Vane 
began  to  hope  there  was  no  positive 
evidence.     Suddenly  three  stories  up 
a  fiddle  was  heard.     Pomander  took 
no  notice,  but  Vane  turned  red ;  this 
put  Sir  Charles  upon  the  scent. 

"  Stay  !  "  said  he.  "  Is  not  that 
an  Irish  tune  ?  " 

Vane  groaned.  He  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  hissed 
out :  — 

"  It  is  her  favorite  tune." 

"  Aha  !  "  said  Pomander.  "  Fol- 
low me ! " 

They  crept  up  the  stairs,  Pomander 
in  advance ;  they  heard  the  signs  of 
an  Irish  orgie,  —  a  rattling  jig  played 
and  danced  with  the  inspiriting  in- 
terjections of  that  frolicsome  nation. 
These  sounds  ceased  after  a  while,  and 
Pomander  laid  his  hand  on  his  friend's 
shoulder. 

"I  prepare  you,"  said  he,  "for 
what  you  are  sure  to  see.  This  wo- 
man was  an  Irish  bricklayer's  daugh- 
ter, and  '  what  is  bred  in  the  bone 
never  comes  out  of  the  flesh ' ;  you 
will  find  her  sitting  on  some  Irish- 
man's knee,  whose  limbs  are  ever  so 
much  stouter  than  yours.  You  are 
the  man  of  her  head,  and  this  is  the 
man  of  her  heart.  These  things 


48 


PEG   WOFFINGTON. 


•would  be  monstrous,  if  they  were  not 
common  ;  incredible,  if  we  did  not 
see  them  every  "day.  But  this  poor 
fellow,  whom  probably  she  deceives 
as  well  as  you,  is  not  to  be  sacrificed 
like  a  dog  to  your  unjust  wrath ;  he 
is  as  superior  to  her  as  you  are  to 
him." 

"  I  will  commit  no  violence,"  said 
Vane.  "  I  still  hope  she  is  inno- 
cent." 

Pomander  smiled,  and  said  he 
hoped  so  too. 

"And  if  she  is  what  you  think,  I 
will  but  show  her  she  is  known,  and, 
blaming  myself  as  much  as  her,  —  O 
yes !  more  than  her  !  —  I  will  go 
down  this  night  to  Shropshire,  and 
never  speak  word  to  her  again  in  this 
world  or  the  next." 

"  Good,"  said  Sir  Charles. 

"  '  Jje  bruit  est  pour  le  fat,  la  plainte  eat  pour 

lesot, 

L'honnete  homme  trompe  s'eloigne  et  ne 
dit  mot.' 

Are  you  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  follow  me." 

Turning  the  handle  gently,  he 
opened  the  door  like  lightning,  and 
was  in  the  room.  Vane's  head  peered 
over  his  shoulder.  She  was  actually 
there ! 

For  once  in  her  life,  the  cautious, 
artful  woman  was  taken  by  surprise. 
She  gave  a  little  scream,  and  turned 
as  red  as  fire.  But  Sir  Charles  sur- 
prised somebody  else  even  more  than 
he  did  poor  Mrs.  Woffington. 

It  would  be  impertinent  to  tanta- 
lize my  reader,  but  I  natter  myself 
this  history  is  not  written  with  power 
enough  to  do  that,  and  I  may  venture 
to  leave  him  to  guess  whom  Sir 
Charles  Pomander  surprised  more 
than  he  did  the  actress,  while  I  go 
back  for  the  lagging  sheep. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

JAMES  TRIPLET,  water  in  his  eye, 
but  fire  in  his  heart,  went  home  on 


wings.  Arrived  there,  he  anticipated 
curiosity  by  informing  all  hands  he 
should  answer  no  questions.  Only 
in  the  intervals  of  a  work,  which  was 
to  take  the  family  out  of  all  its  trou- 
bles, he  should  gradually  unfold  a 
tale,  verging  on  the  marvellous,  —  a 
tale  whose  only  fault  was,  that  fiction, 
by  which  alone  the  family  could  hope 
to  be  great,  paled  beside  it.  He  then 
seized  some  sheets  of  paper,  fished  out 
some  old  dramatic  sketches,  and  a 
list  of  dramatis  persons,  prepared  years 
ago,  and  plunged  into  a  comedy.  As 
he  wrote,  true  to  his  promise,  he 
painted,  Triplet-wise,  that  story  which 
we  have  coldly  related,  and  made  it 
appear,  to  all  but  Mrs.  Triplet,  that 
he  was  under  the  tutela,  or  express 
protection  of  Mrs.  Woffington,  who 
would  push  his  fortunes  until  the 
only  difficulty  would  be  to  keep  arro- 
gance out  of  the  family  heart. 

Mrs.  Triplet  groaned  aloud.  "  You 
have  brought  the  picture  home,  I 
see,"  said  she. 

"  Of  course  I  have.  She  is  going 
to  give  me  a  sitting." 

"  At  what  hour,  of  what  day  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Triplet,  with  a  world  of 
meaning. 

"  She  did  not  say,"  replied  Triplet, 
avoiding  his  wife's  eye. 

"  I  know  she  did  not,"  was  the 
answer.  "  I  would  rather  you  had 
brought  me  the  ten  shillings  than 
this  fine  story,"  said  she. 

"  Wife  !  "  said  Triplet,  "  don't  put 
me  into  a  frame  of  mind  in  which 
successful  comedies  are  not  written." 
He  scribbled  away ;  but  his  wife's  de- 
spondency told  upon  the  man  of  dis- 
appointments. Then  he  stuck  fast; 
then  he  became  fidgety. 

"  Do  keep  those  children  quiet !  " 
said  the  father. 

"  Hush,  my  dears,"  said  the  moth- 
er; "let  your  father  write.  Comedy 
seems  to  give  you  more  trouble  than 
tragedy,  James,"  added  she,  sooth- 
ingly. 

"  Yes,"  was  his  answer.  "  Sorrow 
comes  somehow  more  natural  to  me ; 
but  for  all  that  I  have  got  a  bright 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


49 


thought,  Mrs.  Triplet.  Listen,  all  of 
you.  You  sec,  Jane,  they  arc  all  at 
a  sumptuous  banquet,  all  the  drama- 
tis persona;,  except  the  poet." 

Triplet  went  on  writing,  and  read- 
ing his  work  out :  "  Music,  sparkling 
wine,  massive  plate,  rose-water  in  the 
hand-glasses,  soup,  fish,  —  shall  I 
have  three  sorts  of  fish  ?  I  will ;  they 
are  cheap  in  this  market.  Ah  !  For- 
tune, you  wretch,  here  at  least  I  am 
your  master,  and  I  '11  make  you  know 
it,  —  venison,"  wrote  Triplet,  with  a 
malicious  grin,  "  game,  pickles,  and 
provocatives  in  the  centre  of  the  ta- 
ble ;  then  up  jumps  one  of  the  guests, 
and  says  he  —  " 

"  O  dear,  I  am  so  hungry." 

This  was  not  from  the  comedy,  but 
from  one  of  the  boys. 

"  And  so  am  I,"  cried  a  girl. 

"  That  is  an  absurd  remark,  Ly- 
simac'htis,"  said  Triplet,  with  a  suspi- 
cious calmness. 

"  How  can  a  boy  be  hungry  three 
hours  after  breakfast  ?  " 

"  But,  father,  there  was  no  break- 
fast for  breakfast." 

"  Now  I  ask  you,  Mrs.  Triplet,"  ap- 
pealed the  author,  "  how  I  am  to  write 
comic  scenes  if  you  let  Lysimachus 
and  Roxalana  here  put  the  heavy 
business  in  every  five  minutes  1 " 

"  forgive  them ;  the  poor  things 
are  hungry." 

"  Then  let  them  be  hungry  in  an- 
other room,"  said  the  irritated  scribe. 
"  They  sha'  n't  cling  round  my  pen, 
and  paralyze  it,  just  when  it  is  going 
to  make  all  our  fortunes ;  but  you 
women,"  snapped  Triplet  the  Just, 
"  have  no  consideration  for  people's 
feelings.  Send  them  all  to  bed ; 
every  man  Jack  of  them  ! " 

Finding  the  conversation  taking 
this  turn,  the  brats  raised  an  unani- 
mous howl. 

Triplet  darted  a  fierce  glance  at 
them.  "  Hungry,  hungry,"  cried  he  ; 
"  is  that  a  proper  expression  to  use 
before  a  father  who  is  sitting  down 
here,  all  gayety  "  (scratching  wildly 
with  bis  pen)"  and  hilarity  "  (scratch) 
"  to  write  a  com — com —  "  he  choked 


a  moment ;  then  in  a  very  different 
voice,  ail  sadness  and  .tenderness,  ho 
said  :  "  Where  's  the  youngest,  — 
where 's  Lucy  ?  As  if  I  did  n't  know 
you  are  hungry." 

Lucy  came  to  him.  directly.  He 
took  her  on  his  knee,  pressed  her 
gently  to  his  side,  and  wrote  silently. 
The  others  were  still. 

"  Father,"  said  Lucy,  aged  five,  the 
germ  of  a  woman,  "  I  am  not  tho 
very  hungry." 

"And  I  am  not  hungry  at  all," 
said  bluff  Lysimachus,  taking  his  sis- 
ter's cue;  then  going  upon  his  own 
tact  he  added,  "  I  had  a  great  piece  of 
bread  and  butter  yesterday !  " 

"  Wife,  they  will  drive  me  mad  ! " 
and  he  dashed  at  the  paper. 

The  second  boy  explained  to  his 
mother,  sotto  vocf. :  "  Mother,  he  made 
us  hungry  out  of  his  book." 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  book,"  said  Lucy. 
"  Is  it  a  cookery  book  ?  " 

Triplet  roared :  /'  Do  you  hear 
that  ?  "  inquired  he,  all  trace  of  ill- 
humor  gone.  "  Wife,"  he  resumed, 
after  a  gallant  scribble,  "  I  took  that 
sermon  I  wrote." 

"  And  beautiful  it  was,  James. 
I  'm  sure  it  quite  cheered  me  up  with 
thinking  that  we  shall  all  be  dead  be- 
fore so  very  long." 

"  Well,  the  reverend  gentleman 
would  not  have  it.  He  said  it  was  too 
hard  upon  sin.  '  You  run  at  the 
Devil  like  a  mad  bull,'  said  he.  '  Sell 
it  in  Lambeth,  sir ;  here  calmness  and 
decency  are  before  everything,'  says 
he.  '  My  congregation  expect  to  go 
to  heaven  down  hill.  Perhaps  the 
chaplain  of  Newgate  might  give  you 
a  crown  for  it,'  said  he,"  and  Triplet 
dashed  viciously  at  the  paper.  "Ah!  " 
sighed  he,  "if  my  friend  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton  would  but  drop  these  stupid  come- 
dies and  take  to  tragedy,  this  house 
would  soon  be  all  smiles." 

"  O  James !  "  replied  Mrs.  Triplet, 
almost  peevishly,"  how  can  you  expect 
anything  but  fine  words  from  that 
woman  ?  You  won't  believe  what  all 
the  world  says.  You  will  trust  to 
your  own  good  heart." 


50 


PEG  WOFFIXGTOX. 


"  I  have  n't  a  good  heart,"  said  the 
poor,  honest  fellow.  "  I  spoke  like  a 
brute  to  you  just  now." 

"  Never  mind,  James,"  said  the  wo- 
man :  "  I  wonder  how  you  put  up 
with  me  at  all,  —  a  sick,  useless  crea- 
ture. I  often  wish  to  die,  for  your 
sake.  I  know  you  would  do  better. 
I  am  such  a  weight  round  your 
neck." 

The  man  made  no  answer,  but  he 
put  Lucy  gently  down,  and  went  to 
the  woman,  and  took  her  forehead  to 
his  bosom,  and  held  it  there ;  and  af- 
ter a  while  returned  with  silent  ener- 
gy to  his  comedy. 

"Play  us  a  tune  on  the  fiddle,  fa- 
ther." 

"Ay,  do,  husband.  That  helps 
you  often  in  your  writing." 

Lysimachus  brought  him  the  fiddle, 
and  Triplet  essayed  a  merry  tune ; 
but  it  came  out  so  doleful,  that  he 
shook  his  head,  and  laid  the  instru- 
ment down.  Music  must  be  in  the 
heart,  or  it  will  Anne  out  of  the  fin- 
gers—  notes,  not  music. 

"  No,"  said  he  ;  "  let  us  be  serious 
and  finish  this  comedy  slap  off.  Per- 
haps it  hitches  because  I  forgot  to 
invoke  the  comic  muse.  She  must 
be  a  black-hearted  jade,  if  she  does  n't 
come  with  merry  notions  to  a  poor 
devil,  starving  in  the  midst  of  his 
hungry  little  ones." 

"  We  are  past  help  from  heathen 
goddesses,"  said  the  woman.  "  We 
must  pray  to  Heaven  to  look  down 
upon  us  and  our  children." 

The  man  looked  up  with  a  very 
bad  expression  on  his  countenance. 

"  You  forget,"  said  he,  sullenly, 
"  our  street  is  very  narrow,  and  the 
opposite  houses  are  very  high." 

"James ! " 

"  How  can  Heaven  be  expected  to 
see  what  honest  folk  endure  in  so 
dark  a  hole  as  this  ? "  cried  the  man, 
fiercely. 

"James,"  said  the  woman,  with 
fear  and  sorrow,  "what  words  are 
these  ? " 

The  man  rose,  and  flung  his  pen 
upon  the  floor. 


"  Have  we  given  honesty  a  fail- 
trial,  —  yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  said  the  woman,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation ;  "  not  till  we  die, 
as  we  have  lived.  Heaven  is  higher 
than  the  sky;  children,"  said  she, 
lest  perchance  her  husband's  words 
should  have  harmed  theiryoung  souls, 
"  the  sky  is  above  the  earth,  ami 
heaven  is  higher  than  the  sky ;  and 
Heaven  is  just." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  so,"  said  the  man, 
a  little  cowed  by  her.  "  Every  bod  v 
says  so.  I  think  so,  at  bottom,  my- 
self; but  I  can't  see  it.  I  want  to  see 
it,  but  I  can't !  "  cried  he,  fiercely. 
"  Have  my  children  offended  Heaven  2 
They  will  starve,  —  they  will  die  !  If  " 
I  was  Heaven,  I  'd  be  just,  and  send 
an  angel  to  take  these  children's 
part.  They  cried  to  me  for  bread,  — 
I  had  no  bread ;  so  I  gave  them 
hard  words.  The  moment  I  had  done 
that,  I  knew  it  was  all  over.  God 
knows  it  took  a  long  while  to  break 
my  heart ;  but  it  is  broken  at  last ; 
quite,  quite  broken !  broken !  bro- 
ken ! " 

And  the  poor  thing  laid  his  head 
upon  the  table,  and  sobbed,  beyond 
all  power  of  restraint.  The  children 
cried  round  him,  scarce  kiiowing 
why ;  and  Mrs.  Triplet  could  only 
say,  "  My  poor  husband ! "  and 
prayed  and  wept  upon  the  couch 
where  she  lay. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  a  lady, 
who  had  knocked  gently  and  un- 
heard, opened  the  door,  and  with  a 
light  step  entered  the  apartment ; 
but  no  sooner  had  she  caught  sight  of 
Triplet's  anguish,  than  saying  has- 
tily, "  Stay,  1  forgot  something,"  she 
made  as  hasty  an  exit. 

This  gave  Triplet  a  moment  to  re- 
cover himself ;  and  Mrs.  Woffington, 
whose  lynx  eye  had  comprehended 
all  at  a  glance,  and  who  had  de- 
termined at  once  what  line  to  take, 
came  flying  in  again,  saying  :  — 

"  Was  n't  .somebody  inquiring  for 
an  angel  ?  Here  I  am.  See,  Mr. 
Triplet " ;  and  she  showed  him  a  note, 
which  said  :  "  Madam,  you  are  an 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


51 


atlgcl.  From  a  perfect  stranger,''  ex- 
plained she  ;  ".  so  it  must  he  true." 

"Mrs.  Woffington,"  said  Mr.  Trip- 
let to  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Woffington  planted  herself  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  with  a 
comical  glance,  setting  her  arms 
akimbo,  uttered  a  shrill  whistle. 

"  Now  you  will  see  another  angel, 

—  there  are  two  sorts  of  them." 
Pompcy  came  in  with  a-  basket ; 

she  took  it  from  him. 

"  Lucifer,  avaunt !  "  cried  she,  in  a 
terrible  tone,  that  drove  him  to  the 
wall ;  "  and  wait  outside  the  door," 
added  she,  conversationally. 

"  I  heard  you  were  ill,  ma'am,  and 
I  have  brought  you  some  physic,  — 
black  draughts  from  Burgundy "  ; 
and  she  smiled.  And,  recovered  from 
their  first  surprise,  young  and  old 
began  to  thaw  beneath  that  witching, 
irresistible  smile.  "  Mrs.  Triplet,  I 
have  come  to  give  your  husband  a 
sitting  ;  will  you  allow  me  to  eat  my 
little  luncheon  with  you  ?  I  am  so 
hungry."  Then  she  clapped  her 
hands,  and  in  ran  Pompey.  She  sent 
him  for  a  pic  she  professed  to  have 
fallen  in  love  with  at  the  corner  of  the 
street. 

"  Mother,"  said  Alcibiades,  "  will 
the  lady  give  me  a  bit  of  her  pie  ?  " 

"  Hush !  you  rude  boy !  "  cried  the 
mother. 

"  She  is  not  much  of  a  lady  if  she 
does  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Woffington. 
"Now,  children,  first  let  us  look  at 

—  ahem  —  a  comedy.     Nineteen  dra- 
matis persona; !      What  do  you  say, 
children,  shall  we  cut  out  seven,  or 
nine  (    that  is   the  question.       You 
can't    bring    your    armies    into   our 
drawing  -  rooms,    Mr.    Dagger  -  and- 
bowl.     Are  you  the  Marlborough  of 
comedy  ?     Can  you  marshal   battal- 
ions  on   a  turkey  carpet,  and  make 
gentlefolks  witty  in  platoons  1    What 
is  this  in  the  first  act  1     A  duel,  and 
both  wounded  !     You  butcher  ! " 

"  They  are  not  to  die,  ma'am  ! " 
cried  Triplet,  deprccatingly ;  "upon 
mv  honor,"  said  he,  solemnly,  spread- 
ing his  hands  on  his  bosom. 


"  Do  you  think  I  '11  trust  their 
lives  with  you  ?  No  !  Give  me  a 
pen  ;  this  is  the  way  we  run  people 
through  the  body."  Then  she  wrote 
("  business."  Araminta  looks  out 
of  the  garret  window.  Combatants 
drop  their  swords,  put  their  hands  to 
their  hearts,  and  stagger  off  O.  P.  and 
P.  S. )  "  Now,  children,  who  helps 
me  to  lay  the  cloth  1 " 

"I!" 

"  And  I !  "  (The  children  run  to 
the  cupboard  ) 

Mrs.  Triplet  (half  rising).  "Mad- 
am, I  —  can't  think  of  allowing 
you." 

Mrs.  Woffington  replied  :  "  Sit 
down,  madam,  or  I  must  use  brute 
force.  If  you  are  ill,  be  ill  —  till  I 
make  you  well.  Twelve  plates,  quick ! 
Twenty-four  knives,  quicker  !  Forty- 
eight  forks  quickest !  "  She  met  the 
children  with  the  cloth  and  laid  it; 
then  she  met  them  again  and  laid 
knives  and  forks,  all  at  full  gallop, 
which  mightily  excited  the  bairns. 
Pompey  came  in  with  the  pie,  Mrs. 
Woffington  took  it  and  set  it  before 
Triplet. 

Mrs.  Woffinr/ton.  "  Your  coat,  Mr. 
Triplet,  if  you  please." 

Mr.  Triplet.  "  My  coat,  madam  !  " 

Mrs.  Woffinqton.  "  Yes,  off  with  it, 
—  there 's  a  hole  in  it,  —  and  carve." 
Then  she  whipped  to  the  other  end 
of  the  table  and  stitched  like  wild- 
fire. "Be  pleased  to  cast  your  eyes 
on  that,  Mrs.  Triplet.  Pass  it  to  the 
lady,  young  gentleman.  Fire  away, 
Mr.  Triplet,  never  mind  us  women. 
Wofnngton's  housewife,  ma'am,  fear- 
ful to  the  eye,  only  it  holds  everything 
in  the  world,  and  therq  is  a  small 
space  for  everything  else,  —  to  be  re- 
turned by  the  bearer.  Thank  you, 
sir."  (Stitches  away  like  lightning 
at  the  coat.)  "  Eat  away,  children  ! 
now  is  .your  time ;  when  once  I  be- 
gin, the  pie  will  soon  end  ;  I  do  every- 
thing so  quick." 

Roxalana.  "  The  lady  sews  quicker 
than  you,  mother." 

Woffington.  "  Bless  the  child,  don't 
come  so  near  my  sword-arm;  tho 


52 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


needle  will  go  into  your  eye,  and  out 
at  the  back  of  your  head." 

This  nonsense  made  the  children 
giggle. 

"  The  needle  will  be  lost, — the 
cliild  no  more,  —  enter  undertaker,  — 
house  turned  topsy-turvy,  —  father 
shows  Woffiugton  to  the  door,  —  oft' 
she  goes  with  a  face  as  long  and  dis- 
mal as  some  people's  comedies,  —  no 
names,  —  crying  fine  cha-ney  oran- 
ges." 

The  children,  all  but  Lucy,  screeched 
with  laughter. 

Lucy  said  gravely  :  — 

"  Mother,  the  lady  is  very  fun- 
ny-" 

"  You  will  be  as  funny  when  you 
are  as  well  paid  for  it." 

This  just  hit  poor  Trip's  notion  of 
humor,  and  he  began  to  choke,  with 
his  mouth  full  of  pie. 

"  James,  take  care,"  said  Mrs. 
Triplet,  sad  and  solemn. 

James  looked  up. 
"  My    wife    is    a    good    woman, 
madam,"  said  he ;  "  but  deficient  in 
an  important  particular." 

"  O  James  !  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  •  I  regret  to  say 
you  have  no  sense  of  humor ;  num- 
ruorc  than  a  cat,  Jane." 

"  What !  because  the  poor  thing 
can't  laugh  at  your  comedy  ?  " 

"  Xo,  ma'am ;  but  she  laughs  at 
nothing." 

"  Try  her  with  one  of  your  trage- 
dies, my  lad." 

"  I  am  sure,  James,"  said  the  poor, 
good,  lackadaisical  woman,  "  if  I 
don't  laugh,  it  is  not  for  want  of  the 
will.  I  used  to  be  a  very  hearty 
laugher,"  whined  she ;  "  but  I  have  n't 
laughed  this  two  years." 

"  O,  indeed  !  "  said  the  Woflfington. 
"  Then  the  next  two  years  you  shall 
do  nothing  else." 

"  Ah,  madam ! "  said  Triplet. 
"  That  passes  the  art,  even  of  the 
great  comedian." 

"  Does  it  ?  "  said  the  actress,  coolly. 

Lucy.  —  "She  is  not  a  comedy 
lady.  You  don't  ever  cry,  pretty 
lady  1 " 


Woffinglon  (ironically).  —  "  0,  of 
course  not." 

Lucy  (confidentially).  —  "  Comedy 
is  crying.  Father  cried  all  the  time 
he  was  writing  his  one." 

Triplet  turned  red  as  fire. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  he  :  "  I 
was  bursting  with  merriment.  Wife, 
our  children  talk  too  much ;  they  put 
their  noses  into  everything,  and  criti- 
cise  their  own  father/" 

"  Unnatural  offspring  !  "  laughed 
the  visitor. 

"And  when  they  take  up  a  notion, 
Socrates  could  n't  convince  them  to 
the  contrary.  For  instance,  madam, 
all  this  morning  they  thought  fit  to 
assume  that  they  were  starving. 

"  So  we  were,"  said  Lysiniachus, 
"  until  the  angel  came ;  and  the  devil 
went  for  the  pie." 

"  There  —  there  —  there  !  Now, 
you  mark  my  words  ;  we  shall  never 
get  that  idea  out  of  their  heads  —  " 

"  Until,"  said  Mrs.  Wofh'ngton, 
lumping  a  huge  cut  of  pie  into  Roxa- 
lana's  plate,  "  we  put  a  very  different 
idea  into  their  stomachs."  This  and 
the  look  she  cast  on  Mrs.  Triplet 
fairly  caught  that  good,  though  som- 
bre personage.  She  giggled  ;  put  her 
hand  to  her  face,  and  said  :  "  I  'm 
sure  I  ask  your  pardon,  ma'am  " 

It  was  no  use; "the  comedian  had 
determined  they  should  all  laugh, 
and  they  were  made  to  laugh.  Then 
she  rose,  and  showed  them  how  to 
drink  healths  a  la  Fr<inmise;  and  keen 
were  her  little  admirers  to  touch  her 
glass  with  theirs.  And  the  pure 
wine  she  had  brought  did  Mrs.  Trip- 
let much  good,  too;  though  not  so 
much  as  the  music  and  sunshine  of 
her  face  and  voice.  Then,  when 
their  stomachs  were  full  of  good  food, 
and  the  soul  of  the  grape  tingled  in 
their  veins,  and  their  souls  glowed 
under  her  great  magnetic  power,  she 
suddenly  seized  the  fiddle,  and  showed 
them  another  of  her  enchantments. 
She  put  it  on  her  knee,  and  played  a 
tune  that  would  have  made  gout, 
cholic,  and  phthisic  dance  upon  their 
last  legs.  She  played  to  the  eye  as 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


53 


•well  as  to  the  ear,  with  such  a  smart 
gesture  of  the  bow,  and  such  a  radi- 
ance of  face  as  she  looked  at  them, 
that  whether  the  music  came  out  of 
her  wooden  shell,  or  her  horse-hair 
wand,  or  her  bright  self,  seemed  doubt- 
ful. They  pranced  on  their  chairs ; 
they  could  not  keep  still.  She 
jumped  up  ;  so  did  they.  She  gave  a 
wild  Irish  horroo.  She  put  the  fiddle 
in  Triplet's  hand. 

"  The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley, 
ye  divil !  "  cried  she. 

Triplet  went  hors  de  lui ;  he  played 
like  Paganini,  or  an  intoxicated  de- 
mon. Woffington  covered  the  buckle 
in  gallant  style ;  she  danced,  tlfe  chil- 
dren danced.  Triplet  fiddled  and 
danced,  and  flung  his  limbs  in  wild 
dislocation  ;  the  wineglasses  danced ; 
and  last,  Mrs.  Triplet  was  observed 
to  be  bobbing  about  on  her  sofa,  in  a 
monstrous  absurd  way,  droning  out 
the  tune,  and  playing  her  hands  with 
mild  enjoyment,  all  to  herself.  Wof- 
fington pointed  out  this  pantomim- 
ic soliloquy  to  the  two  boys,  with  a 
glance  full  of  fiery  meaning.  This 
was  "enough  :  with  a  fiendish  yell,  they 
fell  upon  her,  and  tore  her,  shriek- 
ing, off  the  sofa.  And  lo  !  when  she 
was  once  launched,  she  danced  up  to 
her  husband,  and  set  to  him  with  a 
meek  deliberation  that  was  as  fun- 
ny as  any  part  of  the  scene.  So  then 
the  mover  of  all  this  slipped  on  one 
side,  and  let  the  stone  of  merriment 
roll,  —  and  roll  it  did;  there  was 
no  swimming,  sprawling,  or  irrel- 
evant frisking ;  their  feet  struck  the 
ground  for  every  note  of  the  fiddle, 
pat  as  its  echo,  their  faces  shone, 
their  hearts  leaped,  and  their  poor 
frozen  natures  came  out,  and  warmed 
themselves  at  the  glowing  melody  ;  a 
great  sunbeam  had  come  into  their 
abode,  and  these  human  motes  danced 
in  it.  The  elder  ones  recovered  their 
gravity  first,  they  sat  down  breath- 
less, and  put  their  hands  to  their 
hearts ;  they  looked  at  one  another, 
and  then  at  the  goddess  who  had  re- 
vived them.  Their  first  feeling  was 
wonder ;  were  they  the  same,  who, 


ten  minutes  ago,  were  weeping  to- 
gether? Yes!  ten  minutes  ago  they 
were  rayless,  joyless,  hopeless.  Now 
the  sun  was  in  their  hearts,  and  sor- 
row and  sighing  were  fled,  as  fogs 
disperse  before  the  god  of  day.  It 
was  magical ;  could  a  mortal  play 
upon  the  soul  of  man,  woman,  and 
child  like  this  ?  Happy  Woffington  ! 
and  suppose  this  was  more  than  half 
acting,  but  such  acting  as  Triplet 
never  dreamed  of;  and  to  tell  the 
honest,  simple  truth,  I  myself  should 
not  have  suspected  it ;  but  children 
are  sharper  than  one  would  think, 
and  Alcibiades  Triplet  told,  in  after 
years,  that,  when  they  were  all  dan- 
cing except  the  lady,  he  caught  sight 
of  her  face,  —  and  it  was  quite,  quite 
grave,  and  even  sad ;  but,  as  often  as 
she  saw  him  look  at  her,  she  smiled 
at  him  so  gayly,  —  he  could  n't  be- 
lieve it  was  the  same  face. 

If  it  was  art,  glory  be  to  such  art 
so  worthily  applied  !  and  honor  to 
such  creatures  as  this,  that  come  like 
sunshine  into  poor  men's  houses,  and 
tune  drooping  hearts  to  daylight  and 
hope ! 

The  wonder  of  these  worthy  people 
soon  changed  to  gratitude.  Mrs. 
Woffington  stopped  their  mouths  at 
once. 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  she ;  "  if  you  real- 
ly love  me,  no  scenes :  I  hate  them. 
Tell  these  brats  to  kiss  me,  and  let 
me  go.  I  must  sit  for  my  picture 
after  dinner;  it  is  a  long  Avay  to 
Bloomsbury  Square." 

The  children  needed  no  bidding; 
they  clustered  round  her,  and  poured 
out  their  innocent  hearts  as  children 
only  do. 

"  I  shall  pray  for  yon  after  father 
and  mother,"  said  one. 

"  I  shall  pray  for  you  after  daily 
bread,"  said  Lucy,  "  because  we  were 
tho  hungry  till  you  came  ! " 

"  My  poor  children !  "  cried  Wof- 
fington, and  hard  to  grown-up  actors, 
as  she  called  us,  but  sensitive  to  chil- 
dren, she  fairly  melted  as  she  em- 
braced them. 

It  was  at  this  precise  juncture  that 


54 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


the  door  was  unceremoniously  opened, 
and  the  two  gentlemen  burst  upon 
the  scene ! 

My  reader  now  guesses  whom  Sir 
Charles  Pomander  surprised  more 
than  he  did  Mrs.  Woffington.  He 
could  not  for  the  life  of  him  compre- 
hend what  she  was  doing,  and  what 
was  her  ulterior  object.  The  nil  admi- 
rari  of  the  fine  gentleman  deserted 
him,  and  he  gazed  open-mouthed,  like 
the  veriest  chaw-bacon. 

The  actress,  unable  to  extricate 
herself  in  a  moment  from  the  children, 
stood  there  like  Charity,  in  New  Col- 
lege Chapel,  whilst  the  mother  kissed 
her  hand,  and  the  father  quietly 
dropped  tears,  like  some  leaden  water 
god  in  the  middle  of  a  fountain. 

Vane  turned  hot  and  cold  by  turns, 
with  joy  and  shahie.  Pomander's 
genius  came  to  the  aid  of  their  embar- 
rassment. 

"  Follow  my  lead,"  whispered  he. 
"  What !  Mrs.  Woffington  here  !  " 
cried  he ;  then  he  advanced  business- 
like to  Triplet.  "  We  are  aware,  sir, 
of  your  various  talents,  and  are  come 
to  make  a  demand  on  them.  I,  sir, 
am  the  unfortunate  possessor  of  fres- 
cos ;  time  has  impaired  their  indeli- 
cacy, no  man  can  restore  it  as  you 
can." 

"  Augh !  sir !  sir  ! "  said  the  grati- 
fied goose. 

"  My  Cupid's  bows  are  walking- 
sticks,  and  my  Venus's  noses  are 
snubbed.  You  must  set  all  that 
straight,  on  your  own  terms,  Mr. 
Triplet." 

"  In  a  single  morning  all  shall 
bloom  again,  sir  !  Whom  would  you 
wish  them  to  resemble  in  feature  ?  I 
have  lately  been  praised  for  my  skill 
in  portraiture."  (Glancing  at  Mrs. 
Woffington.) 

"  Oh ! "  said  Pomander,  carelessly, 
"you  need  not  go  far  for  Venuses 
and  Cupids,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  see,  sir  :  my  wife  and  children. 
Thank  you,  sir ;  thank  you." 

Pomander  stared ;  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton laughed. 

Now  it  was  Vane's  turn. 


"Let  me  have  a  copy  of  verses 
from  your  pen.  I  shall  have  five 
pounds  at  your  disposal  for  them." 

"  The  world  has  found  me  out !  " 
thought  Triplet,  blinded  by  his  vani- 
ty. "  The  subject,  sir  1 " 

"  No  matter,"  said  Vane,  —  "  no 
matter." 

"  O,  of  course,  it  does  not  matter 
to  me,"  said  Triplet,  with  some 
hauteur,  and  assuming  poetic  omnipo- 
tence. "  Only,  when  one  knows  the 
subject,  one  can  sometimes  make  the 
verses  apply  better." 

"  Write  then,  since  you  are  so  con- 
fident, upon  Mrs.  Woffington." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  a  subject !  They 
shall  be  ready  in  an  hour ! "  cried 
Trip,  in  whose  imagination  Parnassus 
was  a  raised  counter.  He  had  in  a 
teacup  some  lines  on  Venus  and  Mars, 
which  he  could  not  but  feel  would  fit 
Thalia  and  Croesus,  or  Genius  and 
Envy,  equally  well.  "  In  one  hour, 
sir,"  said  Triplet,  "  the  article  shall 
be  executed,  and  delivered  at  your 
house." 

Mrs.  Woffington  called  Vane  to 
her,  with  an  engaging  smile.  A 
month  ago  he  would  have  hoped  she 
would  not  have  penetrated  him  and 
Sir  Charles ;  but  he  knew  her  better 
now.  He  came  trembling. 

"  Look  me  in  the  face,  Mr.  Vane," 
said  she,  gently,  but  firmly. 

"  I  cannot !  "  said  he.  "  How 
can  I  ever  look  you  in  the  face 
again  1 " 

"Ah!  you  disarm  me!  But  I 
must  strike  you,  or  this  will  never 
end.  Did  I  not  promise  that, 
when  you  had  earned  my  esteem,  I 
would  tell  you,  —  what  no  mortal 
knows,  —  Ernest,  my  whole  story  ? 
I  delay  the  confession  :  it  will  cost 
me  so  many  blushes,  so  many  tears  ! 
And  yet  I  hope,  if  you  knew  all,  you 
would  pity  and  forgive  me.  Mean- 
time, did  I  ever  tell  you  a  false- 
hood ?  " 

"  O  no ! " 

"  Why  doubt  me  then,  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  hold  all  your  sex  cheap 
but  you?  Why  suspect  me  of  Heav- 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


55 


en  knows  what,  at  the  dictation  of  a 
heartless,  brainless  fop,  —  on  the 
word  of  a  known  liar,  like  the 
world  ?  " 

Black  lightning  flashed  from  her 
glorious  eyes,  as  she  administered  this 
royal  rebuke.  Vane  felt  what  a  poor 
creature  he  was,  and  his  face  showed 
such  burning  shame  and  contrition, 
that  he  obtained  his  pardon  without 
speaking. 

"  There,"  said  she,  kindly,  "  do  not 
let  us  torment  one  another.  I  forgive 
you.  Let  me  make  you  happy,  Er- 
nest. Is  that  a  great  favor  to  ask1? 
I  can  make  you  happier  than  your 
brightest  dream  of  happiness,  if  you 
will  let  yourself  be  happy." 

They  rejoined  the  others ;  but 
Vane  turned  his  back  on  Pomander, 
and  would  not  look  at  him. 

"  Sir  Charles,"  said  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton,  gayly ;  for  she  scorned  to  admit 
the  tine  gentleman  to  the  rank  of  a 
permanent  enemy,  "  you  will  be  of 
our  party,  I  trust,  at  dinner  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  madam ;  I  fear  I  can- 
not give  myself  that  pleasure  to-day." 
Sir  Charles  did  not  choose  to  swell 
the  triumph.  "  Mr.  Vane,  good 
day  !  "  said  he,  rather  dryly.  "  Mr. 
Triplet  —  madam  —  your  most  obe- 
dient ! "  and,  self-possessed  at  top,  but 
at  bottom  crestfallen,  he  bowed  him- 
self away. 

Sir  Charles,  however,  on  descending 
the  stair  and  gaining  the  street,  caught 
sight  of  a  horseman,  riding  uncertain- 
ly about,  and  making  his  horse  cur- 
vet, to  attract  attention. 

He  soon  recognized  one  of  his  own 
horses,  and  upon  it  the  servant  he 
had  left  behind  to  dog  that  poor  in- 
nocent country  lady.  The  servant 
sprang  off  his  horse  and  touched  his 
hat.  He  informed  his  master  that 
he  had  kept  with  the  carriage  until 
ten  o'clock  this  morning,  when  he 
had  ridden  away  from  it  at  Earner, 
having  duly  pumped  the  servants  as 
opportunity  offered. 

"  Who  is  she?  "  cried  Sir  Charles. 

"Wife  of  a  Cheshire  squire,  Sir 
Charles,"  was  the  reply. 


"  His  name  ?  Whither  goes  she 
in  town  ?  " 

"  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Vane,  Sir 
Charles.  She  is  going  to  her  hus- 
band." 

"  Curious !  "  cried  Sir  Charles.  "  I 
wish  she  had  no  husband.  No !  I 
wish  she  came  from  Shropshire,"  and 
he  chuckled  at  the  notion. 

"  If  you  please,  Sir  Charles,"  said 
the  man,'  "is  not  Willoughby  in 
Cheshire  ?  " 

"  No,"  cried  his  master ;  "  it  is  ill 
Shropshire.  What !  eh  !  Five  guin- 
eas for  you  if  that  lady  comes  from 
Willoughby  in  Shropshire." 

"  That  is  where  she  comes  from 
then,  Sir  Charles,  and  she  is  going 
to  Bloomsbury  Square." 

"  How  long  have  they  been  mar- 
ried ?  " 

"  Not  more  than  twelve  months, 
Sir  Charles." 

Pomander  gave  the  man  ten  guin- 
eas instead  of  five  on  the  spot. 

Reader,  it  was  too  true  !  Mr.  Vane 
—  the  good,  the  decent,  the  church- 
goer —  Mr.  Vane,  whom  Mrs.  Wof- 
h'ngton  had  selected  to  improve  her 
morals  —  Mr  Vane  was  a  married 
man ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

As  soon  as  Pomander  had  drawn 
his  breath  and  realized  this  discovery, 
he  darted  up  stairs,  and,  with  all  the 
demure  calmness  he  could  assume, 
told  Mr.  Vane,  whom  he  met  descend- 
ing, that  he  was  happy  to  find  his  en- 
gagements permitted  him  to  join  the 
party  in  Bloomsbury  Square.  He  then 
flung  himself  upon  his  servant's  horse. 

Like  lago,  he  saw  the  indistinct 
outline  of  a  glorious  and  a  most  ma- 
licious plot ;  it  lay  crude  in  his  head 
and  heart  at  present ;  thus  much  he 
saw  clearly,  that,  if  he  could  time  Mrs. 
Vane's  arrival  so  that  she  should 
pounce  upon  the  Woffington  at  her 
husband's  table,  he  might  be  present 
at  and  enjoy  the  public  discomfiture 
of  a  man  and  woman  who  had  wound- 


56 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


ed  his  vanity.  Bidding  his  servant 
make  the  best  of  his  way  to  Blooms- 
bury  Square,  Sir  Charles  galloped  in 
that  direction  himself,  intending  first 
to  inquire  whether  Mrs.  Vane  was 
arrived,  and,  if  not,  to  ride  towards 
Islington  and  meet  her.  His  plan 
was  frustrated  by  an  accident ;  gal- 
loping round  a  corner,  his  horse  did 
not  change  his  leg  cleverly,  and,  the 
pavement  being  also  loose,  slipped 
and  fell  on  his  side,  throwing  his  ridjr 
upon  the  trottoir.  The  horse  got  up 
and  trembled  violently,  but  was  un- 
hurt. The  rider  lay  motionless,  ex- 
cept that  his  legs  quivered  on  the 
pavement.  They  took  him  up  and 
conveyed  him  into  a  druggist's  shop, 
the  master  of  which  practised  chtrur- 
gery.  He  had  to  be  sent  for;  and, 
before  he  could  be  fou*nd,  Sir  Charles 
recovered  his  reason,  so  much  so, 
that  when  the  chirurgeon  approached 
with  his  fleam  to  bleed  him,  according 
to  the  practice  of  the  day,  the  patient 
drew  his  sword,  and  assured  the  other 
he  would  let  out  every  drop  of  blood 
in  his  body  if  he  touched  him. 

He  of  the  shorter  but  more  lethal 
weapon  hastily  retreated.  Sir  Charles 
flung  a  guinea  on  the  counter,  and 
mounting  his  horse  rode  him  off  rath- 
er faster  than  before  this  accident. 

There  was  a  dead  silence ! 

"  I  believe  that  gentleman  to  be  the 
Devil ! "  said  a  thoughtful  by-stander. 
The  crowd  (it  was  a  century  ago)  as- 
sented nem.  con. 

Sir  Charles,  arrived  in  Bloomsbury 
Square,  found  that  the  whole  party 
was  assembled.  He  therefore 'ordered 
his  servant  to  parade  before  the  door, 
and,  if  he  saw  Mrs.  Vane's  carriage 
enter  the  Square,  to  let  him  know,  if 
possible,  before  she  should  reach  the 
house.  On  entering  he  learned  that 
Mr.  Vane  and  his  guests  were  in  the 
garden  (a  very  fine  one),  and  joined 
them  there. 

Mrs.  Vane  demands  another  chap- 
ter, in  which  I  will  tell  the  reader 
who  she  was,  and  what  excuse  her 
husband  had  for  his  liaison  with  Mar- 
garet Wom'ngton. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MABEL  CHESTER  was  the  bcanry 
and  toast  of  South  Shropshire.  She 
had  refused  the  hand  of  half  the 
country  squires  in  a  circle  of  some  doz- 
en miles,  till  at  last  Mr.  Vane  became 
her  suitor.  Besides  a  handsome  face 
and  person,  Mr.  Vane  had  accom- 
plishments his  rivals  did  not  possess. 
He  read  poetry  to  her  on  mossy 
banks  an  hour  before  sunset,  and 
awakened  sensibilities  which  her  oth- 
er suitors  shocked,  and  they  them. 

The  lovely  Mabel  had  a  taste  for 
beautiful  things,  without  any  excess 
of  that  severe  quality  called  judg- 
ment. 

I  will  explain.  If  you  or  I,  reader, 
had  read  to  her  in  the  afternoon, 
amidst  the  smell  of  roses  and  eglan- 
tine, the  chirp  of  the  mavis,  the  hum 
of  bees,  the  twinkling  of  butterflies, 
and  the  tinkle  of  distant  sheep,  some- 
thing that  combined  all  these  sights, 
and  sounds,  and  smells,  —  say  Mil- 
ton's musical  picture  of  Eden,  p.  L., 
lib.  3,  and  after  that  "  Triplet  on 
Kew,"  she  would  have  instantly  pro- 
nounced in  favor  of  "  Eden  " ;  but  if 
u-f  had  read  her  "  Milton,"  and  Mr. 
Vane  had  read,  her  "Triplet,"  she 
would  have  as  unhesitatingly  pre- 
ferred "  Kew  "  to  "  Paradise." 

She  was  a  true  daughter  of  Eve; 
the  lady,  who,  when  an  angel  was 
telling  her  and  her  husband  the  truths 
of  heaven  in  heaven's  own  music, 
slipped  away  into  the  kitchen,  because 
she  preferred  hearing  the  story  at  sec- 
ond-hand, encumbered  with  digres- 
sions, and  in  mortal  but  marital 
accents. 

When  her  mother,  who  guarded 
Mabel  like  a  dragon,  told  her  Mr. 
Vane  was  not  rich  enough,  and  she 
really  must  not  give  him  so  many  op- 
portunities, Mabel  cried  and  embraced 
the  dragon,  and  said,  "  0  mother  !  " 
The  dragon,  finding  her  ferocity  dis- 
solving, tried  to  shake  her  off,  but  the 
goose  would  cry  and  embrace  the 
dragon  till  it  melted. 

By  and  by  Mr.  Vane's  uncle  died 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


57 


suddenly  and  left  him  the  great  Sto- 
ken  Church  estate,  and  a  trunk  full 
of  Jacobuses  and  Queen  Anne's  guin- 
eas, —  his  own  hoard  and  his  father's, 
—  then  the  dragon  spake  comfortably 
and  said :  — 

"My  child,  he  is  now  the  richest 
man  in  Shropshire.  He  will  not 
think  of  you  now ;  so  steel  your 
heart." 

Then  Mabel,  contrary  to  all  expec- 
tations, did  not  cry ;  but,  with  flush- 
ing check,  pledged  her  life  upon  Er- 
nest's love  and  honor.  And  Ernest, 
as  soon  as  the  funeral,  &c.,  left  him 
free,  galloped  to  Mabel,  to  talk  of  our 
good  fortune.  The  dragon  had  done 
him  injustice ;  that  was  not  his  weak 
point.  So  they  were  married !  and 
they  were  very,  very  happy.  But,  one 
month  after,  the  dragon  died,  and  that 
was  their  first  grief;  but  they  bore  it 
together. 

And  Vane  was  not  like  the  other 
Shropshire  squires.  His  idea  of  pleas- 
ure was  something  his  wife  could 
share.  He  still  rode,  walked,  and  sat 
with  her,  and  read  to  her,  and  com- 
posed songs  for  her,  and  about  her, 
which  she  played  and  sang  prettily 
enough,  in  her  quiet,  lady-like  way, 
and  in  a  voice  of  honey  dropping  from 
the  comb.  Then  she  kept  a  keen  eye 
upon  him  ;  and,  when  she  discovered 
what  dishes  he  liked,  she  superintend- 
ed those  herself;  and,  observing  that 
he  never  failed  to  eat  of  a  certain  lem- 
on-pudding the  dragon  had  originated, 
she  always  made  this  pudding  herself, 
and  she  never  told  her  husband  she 
made  it. 

The  first  seven  months  of  their 
marriage  was  more  like  blue  sky  than 
brown  earth  ;  and  if  any  one  had  told 
Mabel  that  her  husband  was  a  mortal, 
and  not  an  angel,  sent  to  her, 
that  her  days  and  nights  might  be 
unmixed,  uninterrupted  heaven,  she 
could  hardly  have  realized  the  infor- 
mation. 

When  a  vexatious  litigant  began  to 

contest  the  will  by  which  Mr.  Vane 

was  Lord  of  Stoken  Church,  and  Mr. 

Vane  went  up  to  London  to  concert 

3* 


the  proper  means  of  defeating  this  at- 
tack, Mrs.  Vane  would  gladly  have 
compounded  by  giving  the  man  two 
or  three  thousand  acres,  or  the  whole 
estate,  if  he  would  n't  take  less,  not  to 
rob  her  of  her  husband  for  a  month ; 
but  she  was  docile,  as  she  was  amo- 
rous ;  so  she  cried  (out  of  sight)  a 
week ;  and  let  her  darling  go,  with 
every  misgiving  a  loving  heart  could 
have ;  but  one  !  and  that  one  her  own 
heart  told  her  wsfi  impossible. 

The  month  rolled  away,  —  no  symp- 
tom of  a  return.  For  this,  Mr.  Vane 
was  not,  in  fact,  to  blame ;  but,  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  next  month, 
business  became  a  convenient  excuse. 
When  three  months  had  passed,  Mrs. 
Vane  became  unhappy.  She  thought 
he  too  must  feel  the  separation.  She 
offered  to  come  to  him.  He  answered 
uncandidly.  He  urged  the  length,  the 
fatigue  of  the  journey.  She  was  si- 
lenced ;  but  some  time  later  she  be- 
gan to  take  a  new  view  of  his  objec- 
tions. "  He  is  so  self-denying,"  said 
she.  "  Dear  Ernest,  he  longs  for  me : 
but  he  thinks  it  selfish  to  let  me  trav- 
el so  far  alone  to  sec  him." 

Full  of  this  idea,  she  yielded  to  her 
love.  She  made  her  preparations,  and 
wrote  to  him,  that,  if  he  did  not  forbid 
her  peremptorily,  he  must  expect  to 
sec  her  at  his  breakfast-table  in  a  very 
few  days. 

Mr.  Vane  concluded  this  was  a  jest, 
and  did  not  answer  this  letter  at  all. 

Mrs.  Vane  started.  She  travelled 
with  all  speed ;  but,  coming  to  a  halt 

at  ,  she  wrote  to  her  husband 

that  she  counted  on  being  with  him  at 
four  of  the  clock  on  Thursday. 

This  letter  preceded  her  arrival  by 
a  few  hours.  It  was  put  into  his 
hand  at  the  same  time  with  a  note 
from  Mrs.  Wofifington,  telling  him 
she  should  be  at  a  rehearsal  at  Covent 
Garden.  Thinking  his  wife's  letter 
would  keep,  he  threw  it  on  one  side 
into  a  sort  of  a  tray  ;  and,  after  a  hur- 
ried Breakfast,  went  out  of  his  house 
to  the  theatre.  He  returned,  as  we 
are  aware,  with  Mrs.  Woffington  ;  and 
also,  at  her  request,  with  Mr.  Gibber, 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


for  whom  they  called  on  their  way.  I 
He  had    forgotten   his  wife's  letter, 
and  was  entirely  occupied  with   his 
guests. 

Sir  Charles  Pomander  joined  them, 
and  found  Mr.  Colander,  the  head 
domestic  of  the  London  establish- 
ment, cutting  with  a  pair  of  scissors 
every  flower  Mrs.  Woffington  fan- 
cied, that  lady  having  a  passion  for 
flowers. 

Colander,  during  his  temporary  ab- 
sence from  the  interior,  had  appointed 
James  Burdock  to  keep  the  house,  and 
receive  the  two  remaining  guests, 
should  they  arrive. 

This  James  Burdock  was  a  faithful 
old  country  sen-ant,  who  had  come  up 
wirh  Mr.  vane,  but  left  his  heart  at 
Willoughby.  James  Burdock  had 
for  some  time  been  ruminating,  and 
his  conclusion  was,  that  his  mistress, 
Miss  Mabel  (as  by  force  of  habit  he 
called  her),  was  not  treated  as  she  de- 
served. 

Burdock  had  been  imported  into 
Mr.  Vane's  family  by  Mabel ;  he  had 
carried  her  in  his  arms  when  she  was 
a  child ;  he  had  held  her  upon  a  don- 
key when  she  was  a  little  girl ;  and 
when  she  became  a  woman,  it  was  he 
who  taught  her  to  stand  close  to  her 
horse,  and  give  him  her  foot  and 
spring  while  he  lifted  her  steadily  but 
strongly  into  her  saddle,  and,  when 
there,  it  was  he  who  had  instructed 
her  that  a  horse  was  not  a  machine, 
that  galloping  tires  it  in  time,  and 
that  galloping  it  on  the  hard  road 
hammers  it  to  pieces.  "  I  taught  the 
girl,"  thought  James  within  himself. 

This  honest  silver-haired  old  fellow 
seemed  so  ridiculous  to  Colander,  the 
smooth,  supercilious  Londoner,  that 
he  deigned  sometimes  to  converse 
with  James,  in  order  to  quiz  him. 
This  very  morning  they  had  had  a 
conversation. 

"  Poor  Miss  Mabel !  dear  heart.  A 
t\ve!vcinonth  married,  and  nigh  six 
months  of  it  a  widow,  or  next  door." 

"  We  write  to  her,  James,  and  en- 
tertain her  replies,  which  are  at  con- 
siderable length." 


"  Ay,  but  we  don't  read  'em ! " 
said  James,  with  an  uneasy  glance  at 
the  tray. 

"  Invariably,  at  our  leisure ;  mean- 
time we  make  ourselves  happy 
amongst  the  wits  and  the  sirens." 

"And  she  do  make  others  happy 
among  the  poor  and  the  ailing." 

"  Which  shows,"  said  Colander, 
superciliously,  "  the  difference  of 
tastes." 

Burdock,  whose  eye  had  never  been 
off  his  mistress's  handwriting,  at  last 
took  it  up  and  said  :  "  Master  Colan- 
der, do  if  ye  please,  sir,  take  this  into 
master's  dressing-room,  do  now  ?  " 

Colander  looked  down  on  the  mis- 
sive with  dilating  eye.  "  Not  a  bill, 
James  Burdock,"  said  he,  reproach- 
fully. 

"  A  bill !  bless  ye,  no.  A  letter 
from  missus." 

No,  the  dog  would  not  take  it  in  to 
his  master ;  and  poor  James,  with  a 
sigh,  replaced  it  in  the  tray. 

This  James  Burdock,  then,  was 
left  in  charge  of  the  hall  by  Colan- 
der, and  it  so  happened  that  the 
change  was  hardly  effected,  before  a 
hurried  knocking  came  to  the  street 
door. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  grumbled  Burdock,  "  I 
thought  it  would  not  be  long.  Lon- 
don for  knocking  an  1  ringing  all  day, 
and  ringing  and  knocking  all  night." 
He  opened  the  door  reluctantly  and 
suspiciously,  and  in  darted  a  lady, 
whose  features  were  concealed  by  a 
hood.  She  glided  across  the  hall,  as  if 
she  was  making  for  some  point,  and 
old  James  shuffled  after  her,  crying : 
"  Stop,  stop  !  young  woman.  What 
is  your  name,  young  woman  ?  " 

"  Why,  James  Burdock,"  cried  the 
lady,  removing  her  hood,  "  have  you 
forgotten  your  mistress  ?  " 

"  Mistress  !  Why,  Miss  Mabel,  I 
ask  your  pardon,  madam,  —  here, 
John,  Margery !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Vane. 

"  But  where  are  your  trunks, 
miss  ?  And  where 's  the  coach,  and 
Darby  and  Joan  ?  To  think  of  their 
drawing  you  all  the  way  here  !  I  '11 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


59 


have  'em  into  your  room  directly, 
ma'am.  Miss,  you  'vc  come  just  in 
time." 

"  What  a  dear,  good,  stupid,  old 
thing  you  are,  James.  Where  is 
Ernest,  —  Mr.  Vane  1  James,  is  he 
well  and  happy  ?  I  want  to  surprise 
him." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  James,  look- 
ing down. 

"  I  left  the  old  stupid  coach  at 
Islington,  James.  The  something  — 
pin  was  loose,  or  I  don't  know  what. 
Could  I  wait  two  hours  there  ?  So  I 
came  on  by  myself;  you  wicked  old 
man,  you  let  me  talk,  and  don't  tell 
me  how  he  is." 

"  Master  is  main  well,  ma'am,  and 
thank  you,"  said  old  Burdock,  con- 
fused and  uneasy. 

"  But  is  he  happy  ?  Of  course  he 
is.  Are  we  not  to  meet  to-day  after 
six  months  ?  Ah  !  but  never  mind, 
they  are  gone  by." 

"  Lord  bless  her  !  "  thought  the 
faithful  old  fellow.  "  If  sitting  down 
and  crying  could  help  her,  I  would  n't 
bo  long." 

By  this  time  they  were  in  the  ban- 
queting-room,  and  at  the  preparations 
there  Mabel  gave  a  start ;  she  then 
colored.  "  O,  he  has  invited  his 
friends  to  make  acquaintance.  I  had 
rather  we  had  been  alone  all  this  day 
and  to-morrow.  But  he  must  not 
know  that.  No  ;  his  friends  arc  mi/ 
friends,  and  shall  be  too,"  thought 
the  country  wife.  She  then  glanced 
with  some  misgiving  at  her  travelling 
attire,  and  wished  she  had  brought 
one  trunk  with  her. 

"James,"  said  she,  "where  is  my 
room  1  And,  mind,  I  forbid  you  to 
tell  a  soul  I  am  come." 

"  Your  room,  Miss  Mabel  ?  " 

"  Well,  any  room  where  there  is 
looking-glass  and  water." 

She  then  went  to  a  door  which 
opened  in  fact  on  a  short  passage 
leading  to  a  room  occupied  by  Mr. 
Vane  himself. 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  James.  •  "  That 
is  master's  room." 

"  Well,  is  not  master's  room  mis- 


tress's room,  old  man1?    But  stay; 
is  he  there  1  " 

"  No  ma'am  ;  he  is  in  the  garden, 
with  a  power  of  fine  folks." 

"  They  shall  not  sec  me  till  I  have 
made  myself  a  little  more  decent," 
said  the  young  beauty,  who  knew  at 
bottom  liow  little  comparatively  the 
color  of  her  dress  could  affect  her  ap- 
pearance, and  she  opened  Mr.  Vane's 
door  and  glided  in. 

Burdock's  first  determination  was, 
in  spite  of  her  injunction,  to  tell  Co- 
lander ;  but  on  reflection  he  argued : 
"  And  then  what  will  they  do  ?  They 
will  put  their  heads  together,  and  de- 
ceive us  some  other  way.  No  !  " 
thought  James,  with  a  touch  of  spite, 
"  we  shall  see  how  they  will  all  look." 
He  argued  also,  that,  at  sight  of  his 
beautiful  wife,  his  master  must  come 
to  his  senses,  and  the  Colander  fac- 
tion be  defeated  ;  and  perhaps,  by  the 
mercy  of  Providence,  Colander  him- 
self turned  off. 

Whilst  thus  ruminating,  a  thunder- 
ing knock  at  the  door  almost  knocked 
him  off  his  legs.  "  There  ye  go 
.again,"  said  he,  and  went  angrily  to 
the  door.  This  time  it  was  Hunsdon, 
who  was  in  a  desperate  hurry  to  see 
his  master. 

"  Where  is  Sir  Charles  Pomander, 
my  honest  fellow  ?  "  said  he. 

"  In  the  garden,  my  Jack-a-dandy ! " 
said  Burdock,  furiously. 

("  Honest  fellow,"  among  servants, 
implies  some  moral  inferiority.) 

In  the  garden  went  Hunsdon.  His 
master  —  all  whose  senses  were  play- 
ing sentinel  —  saw  him,  and  left  the 
company  to  meet  him. 

"  She  is  in  the  house,  sir." 

"  Good  !     Go,  —  vanish ! " 

Sir  Charles  looked  into  the  b;m- 
quet-room  ;  the  haunch  was  being 
placed  on  the  table.  He  returned 
with  the  information.  He  burned  to 
bring  husband  and  wife  together ;  he 
counted  each  second  lost  that  post- 
poned this  (to  him)  thrilling  joy.  O, 
how  happy  he  was  !  —  happier  than 
the  serpent,  when  he  saw  Eve's  white 
teeth  really  strike  into  the  apple ! 


60 


PEG  WOFFIKGTON. 


"  Shall  we    pay  respect    to    this 
haunch,  Mr.     Quin  ? "    said   Vane, 


"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Quin, 
gravely. 

Colander  ran  down  a  by-path  with 
an  immense  bouquet,  which  he  ar- 
ranued  for  Mrs.  Woffington  in  a  vase 
at  Mr.  Vane's  left  hand.  He  then 
threw  open  the  windows,  which  were 
on  the  French  plan,  and  shut  within 
a  foot  of  the  lawn. 

The  musicians  in  the  arbor  struck 
up,  and  the  company,  led  by  Mr. 
Vane  and  Mrs.  Woffington,  entered 
the  room.  And  a  charming  room  it 
was  !  —  light,  lofty,  and  large,  — 
adorned  in  the  French  way  with  white 
and  gold.  The  table  was  an  exact 
oval,  and  at  it  everybody  could  hear 
what  any  one  said  ;  an  excellent  ar- 
rangement where  ideaed  guests  only 
are  admitted, — which  is  another  ex- 
cellent arrangement,  though  I  see 
people  don't  think  so. 

The  repast  was  luxurious  and  ele- 
gant. There  was  no  profusion  of 
unmeaning  dishes ;  each  was  a  bonne- 
louche,  —  an  undeniable  delicacy. 
The  glass  was  beautiful,  the  plates 
silver :  the  flowers  rose  like  walls 
from  the  table ;  the  plate  massive  and 
glorious ;  rose-water  in  the  hand- 
glasses ;  music  crept  in  from  the  gar- 
den, deliciously  subdued  into  what 
seemed  a  natural  sound.  A  broad 
stream  of  southern  sun  gushed  in 
fiery  gold  through  the  open  window, 
and,  like  a  red-hot  rainbow,  danced 
through  the  stained  glass  above  it. 
Existence  was  a  thing  to  bask  in,  — 
in  such  a  place,  and  so  happy  an 
h/our ! 

The  guests  were  Quin,  Mrs.  Clive, 
Mr.  Gibber,  Sir  Charles  Pomander, 
Mrs.  Woffington,  and  Messrs.  Soaper 
and  Snarl,  critics  of  the  day.  This 
pair,  with  wonderful  sagacity,  had  ar- 
rived from  the  street  as  the  haunch 
came  from  the  kitchen.  Good-humor 
reigned ;  some  cuts  passed,  but,  as  the 
parties  professed  wit,  they  gave  and 
took. 

Quin  carved  the  haunch,  and  was 


happy ;  Soaper  and  Snarl  eating  the 
same,  and  drinking  Toquay,  were 
mellowed  and  mitigated  into  human 
flesh.  Mr.  Vane  and  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton were  happy ;  he,  because  his  con- 
science was  asleep  ;  and  she,  because 
she  felt  nothing  now  could  shake  her 
]  hold  of  him.  Sir  Charles  was  in  a 
sort  of  mental  chuckle.  His  head 
burned,  his  bones  ached  ;  but  he  was 
in  a  sort  of  nervous  delight. 

"  Where  is  she  ? "  thought  he. 
"  What  will  she  do  ?  Will  she  send 
her  maid  with  a  note  ?  How  blue  he 
will  look  !  Or  will  she  come  herself? 
She  is  a  country  wife  ;  there  must  be 
a  scene.  O,  why  doesn't  she  come 
into  this  room  ?  She  must  know  we 
are  here  !  is  she  watching  some- 
where ?  "  His  brain  became  puzzled, 
and  his  senses  were  sharpened  to  a 
point ;  he  was  all  eye,  ear,  and  expec- 
tation ;  and  this  was  why  he  was  the 
only  one  to  hear  a  very  slight  sound 
behind  the  door  we  have  mentioned, 
and  next  to  perceive  a  lady's  glove 
lying  close  to  that  door.  Mabel  had 
dropped  it  in  her  retreat.  Putting 
this  and  that  together,  he  was  led  to 
hope  and  believe  she  was  there,  mak- 
ing her  toilet,  perhaps,  and  her  ar- 
rival at  present  unknown. 

"  Do  you  expect  no  one  else  ?  " 
said  he,  with  feigned  carelessness,  to 
Mr.  Vane. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Vane,  with  real 
carelessness. 

"  It  must  be  so !  What  fortune  ! " 
thought  Pomander. 

Soajjer.  "  Mr.  Gibber  looks  no  older 
than  he"  did  five  years  ago." 

Snarl.  "  There  was  no  room  on  his 
face  for  a  fresh  wrinkle." 

Soaper.  "He!  he!  Nay.  Mr.  Snarl : 
Mr.  Gibber  is  like  old  port ;  the  more 
ancient  he  grows,  the  more  delicious 
his  perfume." 

Snarl.    "  And  the  crustier  he  gets." 

Clive.  "  Mr.  Vane,  you  should  al- 
ways separate  those  two.  Snarl,  by 
himself,  isjust  supportable  ;  but,  when 
Soaper  paves  the  way  with  his  hypo- 
critical praise,  the  pnir  are  too  much; 
they  are  a  two-edged  sword." 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


61 


Woffington.  "Wanting  nothing  but 
polish  and  point." 

Vane.  "  Gentlemen,  we  abandon 
your  neighbor,  Mr.  Quin,  to  you." 

Quln.  "  They  know  better.  If  they 
don't  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  their 
heads,  no  fat  goes  from  here  to  them." 

Gibber.  "  Ah,  Mr.  Vane  ;  this  room 
is  delightful ;  but  it  makes  me  sad. 
I  knew  this  house  in  Lord  Longue- 
ville's  time ;  an  unrivalled  gallant, 
Peggy.  You  may  just  remember 
him,  Sir  Charles  ?  '* 

Pomander  (with  his  eye  on  a  cer- 
tain door).  "  Yes,  yes ;  a  gouty  old 
fellow." 

Gibber  fired  up.  "  I  wish  you  may 
ever  be  like  him.  0  the  beauty,  the 
wit,  the  pctits-soupcrs  that  used  to  be 
here !  Longuevillc  was  a  great  crea- 
ture, Mr.  Vane.  I  have  known  him 
entertain  a  fine  lady  in  this  room, 
while  her  rival  was  fretting  and 
fuming  on  the  other  side  of  that 
door." 

"  Ah,  indeed  ! "  said  Sir  Charles. 

"  More  shame  for  him,"  said  Mr. 
Vane. 

Here  was  luck !  Pomander  seized 
this  opportunity  of  turning  the  con- 
versation to  his  object.  With  a  mali- 
cious twinkle  in  his  eye,  he  inquired 
of  Mr.  Gibber  what  made  him  fancy 
the  house  had  lost  its  virtue  in  Mr. 
Vane's  hands. 

"  Because,"  said  Gibber,  peevishly, 
"  you  all  want  the  true  savoir  faire 
nowadays,  because  there  is  no  juste 
milieu,  young  gentlemen.  The  young 
dogs  of  the  day  are  all  cither  un- 
principled heathen,  like  yourself,  or 
Amadisses,  like  our  worthy  host." 
The  old  gentleman's  face  and  man- 
ners were  like  those  of  a  patriarch, 
regretting  the  general  decay  of  virtue, 
not  the  imaginary  diminution  of  a 
single  vice.  He  concluded  with  a 
siirh,  that,  "  The  true  preit'x  des  dames 
went  out  with  the  full  periwig ;  stap 
my  vitals ! " 

"  A  bit  of  fat,  Mr.  Gibber  ? "  said 
Qnin,  whose  jokes  were  not  polished. 

"Jemmy,  thou  art  a  brute,"  was 
the  reply. 


"  You  refuse,  sir  ? "  said  Qnin, 
sternly. 

"  No,  sir ! "  said  Gibber,  with  dig- 
nity :  "  I  accept." 

Pomander's  eye  was  ever  on  the 
door. 

"  The  old  are  so  unjust  to  the 
young,"  said  he.  "You  pretend  that 
the  Deluge  washed  away  iniquity, 
and  that  a  rake  is  a  fossil.  What," 
said  he,  leaning  as  it  were  on  every 
word,  "if  I  bet  you  a  cool  hundred, 
that  Vane  has  a  petticoat  in  that 
room,  and  that  Mrs.  Woffington  shall 
unearth  her  ? " 

The  malicious  dog  thought  this  was 
the  surest  way  to  effect  a  dramatic  ex- 
posure :  because,  if  Peggy  found  Ma- 
bel to  all  appearances  concealed,  Peg- 
gy would  scold  her,  and  betray  her- 
self. 

"  Pomander  !  "  cried  Vane,  in 
great  heat ;  then,  checking  himself,  he 
said  coolly:  "but  you  all  know  Po- 
mander." 

"  None  of  you,"  replied  that  gentle- 
man. "  Bring  a  chair,  sir,"  said  he, 
authoritatively,  to  a  servant ;  who,  of 
course,  obeyed. 

Mrs.  Clive  looked  at  him,  and 
thought :  "  There  is  something  in 
this  !  " 

"  It  is  for  the  lady,"  said  he,  coolly. 
Then,  leaning  over  the  table,  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Woffington,  with  an  impu- 
dent affectation  of  friendly  understand- 
ing :  "  I  ran  her  to  earth  in  this  house 
not  ten  minutes  ago.  Of  course  I 
don't  know  who  she  is  !  But,"  smack- 
ing his  lips,  "  a  rustic  Amaryllis, 
breathing  all  May-buds  and  Meadow- 
sweet." 

"  Have  her  out,  Peggy  !  "  shouted 
Gibber.  "  I  know  the  run,  —  there  's 
the  covert !  Hark,  forward !  Ha,  ha, 
ha !  " 

Mr.  Vane  rose,  and,  with  a  stern- 
ness that  brought  the  old  beau  up  with 
a  run,  he  said  :  "  Mr.  Gibber,  age  and 
infirmity  are  privileged  ;  but  for  you, 
Sir  Charles  —  " 

"  Don't  be  angry,"  interposed  Mrs. 
Woffington,  whose  terror  was  lest  he 
should  quarrel  with  so  practised  a 


62 


PEG   WOFFIXGTOX. 


swordsman.  "  Don't  you  see  it  is  a 
jest !  and,  as  might  be  expected  from 
poor  Sir  Charles,  a  very  sorry  one." 

"  A  jest !  "  said  Vane,  white  with 
rage.  "  Let  it  go  no  further,  or  it 
will  be  earnest !  " 

Airs.  Woffington  placed  her  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  and  at  that  touch  he 
instantly  yielded,  and  sat  down. 

It  was  r.t  this  moment,  when  Sir 
Charles  found  himself  for  the  present 
baffled,  —  for  he  could  no  longer  press 
his  point,  and  search  that  room  ; 
when  the  attention  of  all  was  drawn 
to  a  dispute,  which,  for  a  moment,  had 
looked  like  a  quarrel ;  whilst  Mrs. 
Woffington's  hand  still  lingered,  as 
only  a  woman's  hand  can  linger  in  leav- 
ing the  shoulder  of  the  man  she  loves  ; 
it  was  at  this  moment  the  door  opened 
of  its  own  accord,  and  a  most  beauti- 
ful woman  stood,  with  a  light  step, 
upon  the  threshold ! 

Nobody's  b;ick  was  to  her,  except 
Mr.  Vane's.  Every  eye,  but  his,  was 
spell-bound  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Wellington  withdrew  her 
hand,  as  if  a  scorpion  had  touched 
her. 

A  stupor  of  astonishment  fell  on 
them  all. 

Mr.  Vane,  seeing  the  direction  of 
all  their  eyes,  slewed  himself  round  in 
his  chair  into  a  most  awkward  posi- 
tion, and  when  he  saw  the  lady,  he 
was  utterly  dumfoundcd  !  But  she, 
as  soon  as  he  turned  his  face  her  way, 
glided  up  to  him,  with  a  little  half- 
sigh,  half-cry  of  joy,  and,  taking  him 
round  the  neck,  kissed  him  delicious- 
ly,  while  every  eye  at  the  table  met 
every  other  eye  in  turn.  One  or  two 
of  the  men  rose ;  for  the  lady's  beauty 
was  as  worthy  of  homage  as  her  ap- 
pearing was  marvellous. 

Mrs.  Woffington,  too  astonished  for 
emotion  to  take  any  definite  shape, 
said,  in  what  seemed  an  ordinary 
tone  :  "  Who  is  this  lady  ?  " 

"  I  am  his  wife,  madam,"  said 
Mabel,  in  the  voice  of  a  skylark,  and 
smiling  friendly  on  the  questioner. 

"  It  is  my  wife  ! "  said  Vane,  like  a 
speaking-machine ;  he  was  scarcely  in 


a  conscious  state.  "  It  is  my  wife !  " 
he  repeated,  mechanically. 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of 
Mabel's  mouth  than  two  servants, 
who  had  never  heard  of  Mrs.  Vane 
before,  hastened  to  place  on  Mr. 
Vane's  right  hand  the  chair  Poman- 
der had  provided,  a  plate  and  napkin 
were  there  in  a  twinkling,  and  the 
wife  modestly,  but  as  a  matter  of 
course,  courtesied  low,  with  an  air  of 
welcome  to  all  her  guests,  and  then 
glided  into  the  seat  her  sen-ants  obse- 
quiously placed  for  her. 

The  whole  thing  did  not  take  half 
a  minute ! 


CHAPTER  XL 

ME.  VAXE,  besides  being  a  rich, 
was  a  magnificent  man ;  when  his 
features  were  in  repose  their  beau- 
ty had  a  wise  and  stately  character. 
Soaper  and  Snarl  had  admired  and 
bitterly  envied  him.  At  the  present 
moment  no  one  of  his  guests  envied 
him,  —  they  began  to  realize  his  posi- 
tion. And  he,  a  huge  wheel  of  shame 
and  remorse,  began  to  turn  and  whir 
before  his  eyes.  He  sat  between  two 
European  beauties,  and,  pale  and 
red  by  turns,  shunned  the  eyes  of 
both,  and  looked  down  at  his  plate  in 
a  cold  sweat  of  humiliation,  mortifica- 
tion, and  shame. 

The  iron  passed  through  Mrs. 
Woffington's  soul.  So!  this  was  a 
villain  too,  the  greatest  villain  of  all, 
—  a  hypocrite !  She  turned  very 
faint,  but  she  was  under  an  enemy's 
eye,  and  under  a  rival's  ;  the  thought 
drove  the  blood  back  from  her  heart, 
and  with  a  mighty  effort  she  was 
Woffington  again.  Hitherto  her  liai- 
son with  Mr.  Vane  had  called  up  the 
better  part  of  her  nature,  and  perhaps 
our  reader  has  been  taking  her  for  a 
good  woman  ;  but  now  all  her  dregs 
were  stirred  to  the  surface.  The  mor- 
tified actress  gulled  by  a  novice,  the 
wronged  and  insulted  woman,  had  but 
two  thoughts  ;  to  defeat  her  rival,  — 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


63 


to  be  revenged  on  her  false  lover. 
Mora  than  one  sharp  spasm  passed 
over  her  features  before  she  could 
muster  them,  and  then  she  became 
smiles  above,  wormwood  and  red-hot 
steel  below,  —  all  in  less  than  half  a 
minute. 

As  for  the  others,  looks  of  keen  in- 
telligence passed  between  them,  and 
they  watched  with  burning  interest 
for  the  denouement.  That  interest  was 
stronger  than  their  sense  of  the  comi- 
cality of  all  this  (for  the  humorous 
view  of  what  passes  before  our  eyes 
comes  upon  cool  reflection,  not  often 
at  the  time). 

Sir  Charles,  indeed,  who  had  fore- 
seen some  of  this,  wore  a  demure 
look,  belied  by  his  glittering  eye. 
He  offered  Gibber  snuff,  and  the  two 
satirical  animals  grinned  over  the 
snuff-box,  like  a  malicious  old  ape 
and  a  mischievous  young  monkey. 

The  new-comer  was  charming  ;  she 
was  above  the  middle  height,  of  a  full, 
though  graceful  figure,  her  abundant, 
glossy,  bright  brown  hair  glittered 
here  and  there  like  gold  in  the  light ; 
she  had  a  snowy  brow,  eyes  of  the 
profbundest  blue,  a  cheek  like  a 
peach,  and  a  face  beaming  candor  and 
goodness  ;  the  character  of  her  coun- 
tenance resembled  "  the  Queen  of  the 
May,"  in  Mr.  Leslie's  famous  picture, 
more  than  any  face  of  our  day  I  can 
call  to  mind. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  for 
this  silly  trick  1  "  said  she,  with  some 
misgiving.  "  After  all  I  am  only  two 
hours  before  my  time ;  you  know, 
dearest,  I  said  four  in  my  lettep:,  —  did 
I  not  ? " 

Vane  stammered.  What  could  he 
say  ? 

"  And  you  have  had  three  days  to 
prepare  you,  for  I  wrote,  like  a 
good  wife,  to  ask  leave  before  start- 
ing ;  but  he  never  so  much  as  an- 
swered my  letter,  madam."  (This 
she  addressed  to  Mrs.  Womngton, 
who  smiled  by  main  force. ) 

"  Why,"  stammered  Vane,  "  could 
you  doubt  ?  I  —  I  —  " 

"  No !     Silence  was  consent,  was  it 


not  ?  But  I  beg  your  pardon,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  I  hope  you  will  for- 
give me.  It  is  six  months  since  I 
saw  him  —  so  you  understand  —  I 
warrant  me  you  did  not  look  for  me 
so  soon,  ladies  1 " 

"  Some  of  us  did  not  look  for  you 
at  all,  madam,"  said  Mrs.  Womng- 
ton. 

"  What,  Ernest  did  not  tell  you  he 
expected  me  1  " 

"  No  !  He  told  us  this  banquet  was 
in  honor  of  a  lady's  first  visit  to  his 
house,  but  none  of  us  imagined  that 
lady  to  be  his  wife." 

Vane  began  to  writhe  under  that 
terrible  tongue,  whose  point  hitherto 
had  ever  been  turned  away  from  him. 

"  He  intended  to  steal  a  inarch  on, 
us,"  said  Pomander,  dryly ;  "  and, 
with  your  help,  we  steal  one  on 
him  "  ;  and  he  smiled  maliciously  on 
Mrs.  Woflington. 

"  But,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Quin, 
"  the  moment  you  did  arrive,  I  kept 
sacred  for  you  a  bit  of  the  fat ;  for 
which,  I  am  sure,  you  must  be  ready. 
Pass  her  plate !  " 

"  Not  at  present,  Mr.  Quin,"  said 
Mr.  Vane,  hastily.  "  She  is  about 
to  retire  and  change  her  travelling- 
dress." 

"  Yes,  dear;  but,  you  forget,  I  am 
a  stranger  to  your  friends.  Will  you 
not  introduce  me  to  them  first  ?  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Vane,  in  trepida- 
tion. "  It  is  not  usual  to  introduce 
in  the  beau  monde." 

"  We  always  introduce  ourselves," 
rejoined  Mrs.  Womngton ;  and  she 
rose  slowly,  with  her  eye  on  Vane. 
He  cast  a  look  of  abject  entreaty  on 
her ;  but  there  was  no  pity  in  that 
curling  lip  and  awful  eye.  He  closed 
his  own  eyes,  and  waited  for  the  blow. 
Sir  Charles  threw  himself  back  in  his 
chair,  and,  chuckling,  prepared  for  the 
explosion.  Mrs.  Womngton  saw  him, 
and  cast  on  him  a  look  of  ineffable 
scorn;  and  then  she  held  the  whole 
company  fluttering  a  long  while.  At 
length  :  "  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Quick- 
ly, madam,"  said  she,  indicating  Mrs. 
Olive. 


64 


PEG  WOFFIXGTOX. 


This  turn  took  them  all  by  surprise. 
Pomander  bit  his  lip. 

"  Sir  John  Brute  —  " 

"  Falstaff,"  cried  Quin  ;  "  hang  it." 

"  Sir  John  Brute  Falstaff,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Woffington.  "  We  call  him, 
for  brevity,  Brute." 

Vane  drew  a  long  breath.  "  Your 
neighbor  is  Lord  Foppington  ;  a  but- 
terfly of  some  standing,  and  a  little 
gouty. 

"  Sir  Charles  Pomander." 

"  O,"  cried  Mrs.  Vane.  "  It  is  the 
good  gentleman  who  helped  us  out 
of  the  slough,  near  Huntingdon.  Er- 
nest, if  it  had  not  been  for  this  gen- 
tleman, I  should  not  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  being  here  now."  And 
she  Learned  on  the  good  Pomander. 

Mr.  Vane  did  not  rise  and  embrace 
Sir  Charles. 

"  All  the  company  thanks  the 
good  Sir  Charles,"  said  Gibber,  bow- 
ing. 

"  I  see  it  in  all  their  faces,"  said 
the  good  Sir  Charles,  dryly. 

Mrs.  Woffington  continued  :  "  Mr. 
Soaper,  Mr.  Snarl ;  gentlemen  who 
would  butter  and  slice  up  their  own 
fathers  ! " 

"  Bless  me  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Vane, 
faintly. 

"  Critics  !  "  And  she  dropped,  as 
it  were,  the  word  dryly,  with  a  sweet 
smile,  into  Mabel's  plate. 

Mrs.  Vane  was  relieved;  she  had 
apprehended  cannibals.  London  they 
had  told  her  was  full  of  curiosi- 
ties. 

"  But  yourself,  madam  ?  " 

"  I  am"  the  Lady  Betty  Modish  ;  at 
your  sen-ice." 

A  four-inch  grin  went  round  the 
table.  The  dramatical  old  rascal, 
Cibber,  began  now  to  look  at  it  as  a 
bit  of  genteel  comedy ;  and  slipped 
out  his  note-book  under  the  table. 
Pomander  cursed  her  ready  wit, 
which  had  disappointed  him  of  his 
catastrophe.  Vane  wrote  on  a  slip  of 
paper :  "  Pity  and  respect  the  inno- 
cent ! "  and  passed  it  to  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington. He  could  not  have  done  a 
more  superfluous  or  injudicious  thing. 


"  And  now,  Ernest,"  cried  Mabel, 
"  for  the  news  from  Willoughby." 

Vane  stopped  her  in  dismay.  He 
felt  how  many  satirical  eyes  and  ears 
were  upon  him  and  his  wife.  "  Pray 
go  and  change  your  dress  first,  Ma- 
bel," cried  he,  fully  determined  that 
on  her  return  she  should  not  find  the 
present  party  there. 

Mrs.  Vane  cast  an  imploring  look 
on  Mrs.  Woffington.  "My  things 
are  not  come,"  said  she.  "  And, 
Lady  Betty,  I  had  so  much  to  tell 
him,  and  to  be  sent  away  "  ;  and  the 
deep  blue  eyes  began  to  fill. 

Xo\v  Mrs.  Woffington  was  de- 
termined that  this  lady,  who  she  saw 
was  simple,  should  disgust  her  hus- 
band, by  talking  twaddle  before  a 
band  of  satirists.  So  she  said  warm- 
ly :  "  It  is  not  fair  on  us.  Pray, 
madam,  your  budget  of  country 
news.  Clouted  cream  so  seldom 
comes  to  London  quite  fresh." 

"  There,  you  see,  Ernest,"  said 
the  unsuspicious  soul.  "  First,  you 
must  know  that  Gray  Gillian  is 
turned  out  for  a  brood  "marc,  so  old 
Geroge  won't  let  me  ride  her  ;  old 
servants  are  such  tyrants,  my  lady. 
And  my  Barbary  hen  has  laid  two 
eggs  ;  Heaven  knows  the  trouble  we 
had  to  bring  her  to  it.  And  Dame 
Best,  that  is  my  husband's  old  nurse, 
Mrs.  Quickly,  has  had  soup  and  pud- 
ding from  the  Hall  every  day ;  and 
once  she  went  so  far  as  to  say  it  was 
n't  altogether  a  bad  pudding.  She 
is  not  a  very  grateful  woman,  in  a 
general  way,  poor  thing  !  I  made  it 
with  these  hands." 

Vane  writhed. 

"  Happy  pudding  ! "  observed  Mr. 
Cibber. 

"  Is  this  mockery,  sir  ?  "  cried  Vane, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  irritation. 

"  No,  sir  ;  it  is  gallantry,"  replied 
Cibber,  with  perfect  coolness. 

"  Will  you  hear  a  little  music  in 
the  garden  1 "  said  Vane  to  Mi's. 
WofBngton,  pooh-poohing  his  wife's 
news. 

"  Xot  till  I  hear  the  end  of  Dame 
Bess." 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


"Best,  my  lady." 

"  Dame  Best  interests  me,  Mr. 
Vane." 

"  Ay,  and  Ernest  is  very  fond  of 
her,  too,  when  he  is  at  home.  She  is 
in  her  nice  new  cottage,  dear;  but 
she  misses  the  draughts  that  were  in 
her  old  one,  —  they  were  like  old 
friends.  '  The  only  ones  I  have,  I  'm 
thinking,'  said  the  dear  cross  old 
thing ;  and  there  stood  I,  on  her 
floor,  with  a  flannel  petticoat  in  both 
hands,  that  I  had  made  for  her,  and 
ruined  my  finger.  Look  else,  my 
Lord  Foppington  ?  "  She  extended 
a  hand  the  color  of  cream. 

"  Permit  me,  madam  ?  "  taking 
out  his  glasses,  with  which  he  in- 
spected her  finger ;  and  gravely  an- 
nounced to  the  company :  "  The 
laceration  is,  in  fact,  discernible.  May 
I  be  permitted,  madam,"  added  he, 
"  to  kiss  this  fair  hand,  which  I 
should  never  have  suspected  of  hav- 
ing ever  made  itself  half  so  use- 
ful ?  " 

"  Ay,  my  lord !  "  said  she,  coloring 
slightly,  "you  shall,  because  you  are 
so  old  ;  but  I  don't  say  for  a  young 
gentleman,   unless    it  was    the  one  ' 
that  belongs  to  me ;  and  he  does  not  j 
ask  me." 

"  My  dear  Mabel ;  pray  remember  ! 
we  are  not  at  Willoughby." 

"  I  see  we  are  not,  Ernest."  And 
the  dovelike  eyes  filled  brimful ;  and 
all  her  innocent  prattle  was  put  an 
end  to. 

"  What  brutes  men  are,"  thought  i 
Mrs.  Woflfington.  "  They  are  not ' 
worthy  even  of  a  fool  like  this." 

Mr.  Vane  once  more  pressed  her  | 
to  hear  a  little  music  in  the  garden  ; 
and  this   time  she  consented.      Mr. 
Vane  was  far  from  being  unmoved 
by  his  wife's  arrival,  and  her  true  af- 
fection.     But  she  worried  him  ;  he 
was  anxious,  above  all  things,  to  es- 
cape from  his  present  position,  and 
separate  the  rival  queens  ;  and  this  ' 
•was  the  only  way  he  could  sec  to  do  \ 
it.      He  whispered  Mabel,  and  bade 
her  somewhat  peremptorily  rest  her-  ! 
self  ibr  an  hour  after  her  journey,  and 


he  entered  the  garden  with  Mrs.  Vrcf- 
fington. 

Now  the  other  gentlemen  admired 
Mrs.  Vane  the  most.  She  was  new. 
She  was  as  lovely,  in  her  way,  as  Peg- 
gy ;  and  it  was  the  young  May-morn 
beauty  of  the  country.  They  forgave 
her  simplicity,  and  even  her  goodness, 
on  account  of  her  beauty ;  men  are 
not  severe  judges  of  beautiful  women. 
They  all  solicited  her  to  come  with 
them,  and  be  the  queen  of  the  garden. 
But  the  good  wife  was  obedient. 
Her  lord  had  told  her  she  was  fa- 
tigued ;  so  she  said  she  was  tired. 

"  Mr.  Vane's  garden  will  lack  its 
sweetest  and  fairest  flower,  madam," 
cried  Gibber,  "  if  we  leave  you 
here. " 

"  Nay,  my  lord,  there  are  fairer 
than  I* 

"  Poor  Quin  !  "  cried  Kitty  Clive ; 
"  to  have  to  leave  the  alderman's  walk 
for  the  garden-walk." 

"  All  I  regret,"  said  the  honest 
glutton,  stoutly,  "  is  that  I  go  with- 
out carving  for  Mrs.  Vane." 

"  You  are  very  good,  Sir  John ;  I 
will  be  more  troublesome  to  you  at 
sapper-tame." 

VVhcn  they  were  all  gone,  she 
could  n't  help  sighing.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  everybody  was  kinder  to 
her  than  he  whose  kindness  alone  she 
valued.  "  And  he  must  take  Lady 
Betty's  hand  instead  of  mine,"  thought 
she.  "  But  that  is  good  breeding,  I 
suppose.  I  wish  there  was  no  such 
thing ;  we  are  very  happy  without  it 
in  Sliropshire."  Then  this  poor  lit* 
tie  soul  was  ashamed  of  herself,  and 
took  herself  to  task.  "  Poor  Ernest," 
said  she,  pitying  the  wrong-doer,  like  " 
a  woman,  "  he  was  not  pleased  to  be 
so  taken  by  surprise.  No  wonder ; 
they  are  so  ceremonious  in  London. 
How  good  of  him  not  to  be  angry  !  " 
Then  she  sighed  ;  her  heart  had  re- 
ceived a  damp.  His  voice  seemed 
changed,  and  he  did  not  meet  her  eyes 
with  the  look  he  wore  at  Willoughby. 
She  looked  timidly  into  the  garden. 
She  saw  the  gay  colors  of  beaux,  as 
well  as  of  belles,  —  for  in  these  days 
E 


66 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


broadcloth  had  not  displaced  silk  and 
velvet,  —  glancing  and  shining  among 
the  trees ;  and  she  sighed,  hut,  pres- 
ently brightening  up  a  little,  she  said  : 
"  I  will  go  and  see  that  the  coffee  is 
hot  and  clear,  end  the  chocolate  well 
mixed  for  them."  The  poor  child 
wanted  to  do  something  to  please  her 
husband.  Before  she  could  carry  out 
this  act  of  domestic  virtue,  her  atten- 
tion was  drawn  to  a  strife  of  tongues 
in  the  hall.  She  opened  the  folding- 
doors,  and  there  was  a  fine  gentleman 
obstructing  the  entrance  of  a  sombre, 
rusty  figure,  with  a  portfolio  and  a 
manuscript  under  each  arm. 

The  fine  gentleman  was  Colander. 
The  seedy  personage  was  the  eternal 
Triplet,  come  to  make  hay  with  his 
five-foot  rule  while  the  sun  shone. 
Colander  had  opened  the  door  to  him, 
and  he  had  shot  into  the  hall.  The 
major-domo  obstructed  the  farther 
entrance  of  such  a  coat. 

"  I  tell  you  my  master  is  not 
at  home,"  remonstrated  the  major- 
domo. 

"  How  can  you  say  so,"  cried  Mrs. 
Vane,  in  surprise,  "  when  you  know 
he  is  in  the  garden  1  " 

"  Simpleton  !  "  thought  Colander. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  in." 

"  Gentleman !  "  muttered  Colan- 
der. 

Triplet  thanked  her  for  her  conde- 
scension ;  he  would  wait  for  Mr. 
Vane  in  the  hall.  "  I  came  by  ap- 
pointment, madam ;  this  is  the  only 
excuse  for  the  importunity  you  have 
just  witnessed." 

Hearing  this,  Mrs.  Vane  dismissed 
Colander  to  inform  his  master.  Co- 
lander bowed  loftily,  and  walked  into 
the  sen-ants'  hull  without  deigning  to 
take  the  last  proposition  into  consid- 
eration. 

"  Come  in  here,  sir,"  said  Mabel ; 
"  Mr.  Vane  will  come  as  soon  as  he 
can  leave  his  company."  Triplet  en- 
tered in  a  series  of  obsequious  jerks. 
"  Sit  down  and  rest  you,  sir."  And 
Mrs.  Vane  seated  herself  at  the  table, 
and  motioned  with  her  white  hand  to 
Triplet  to  sit  beside  her. 


Triplet  bowed,  and  sat  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair,  and  smirked  and  'dropped 
his  portfolio,  and  instantly  begged 
Mrs.  Vane's  pardon  ;  in  taking  it  up, 
he  let  fall  his  manuscript,  and  was 
again  confused ;  but  in  the  middle  of 
some  superfluous  and  absurd  excuse 
his  eye  fell  on  the  haunch ;  it  straight- 
way dilated  to  an  enormous  size,  and 
he  became  suddenly  silent  and  ab- 
sorbed in  contemplation. 

"  You  look  sadly  tired,  sir." 

"  Why,  yes,  madam.  It  is  a  long 
way  from  Lambeth  Walk,  and  it  is 
passing  hot,  madam."  He  took  his 
handkerchief  out,  'and  was  about  to 
wipe  his  brow,  but  returned  it  hastily 
to  his  pocket.  "  I  beg  yotir  pardon, 
madam,"  said  Triplet,  whose  ideas  of 
breeding,  though  speculative,  were 
severe,  "I  forgot  myself." 

Mabel  looked  at  him,  and  colored, 
and  slightly  hesitated.  At  last  she 
said  :  "  I  '11  be  bound  you  came  in 
such  a  hurry  you  forgot  —  you  must 
n't  he  angry  with  me  —  to  have  your 
dinner  first !  " 

For  Triplet  looked  like  an  absurd 
wolf,  —  all  benevolence  and  starva- 
tion ! 

"  What  divine  intelligence  !  " 
thought  Trip.  "  How  strange,  mad- 
am," cried  he,  "  you  have  hit  it ! 
This  accounts,  at  once,  for  a  craving 
I  feel.  Now  you  remind  me,  I  recol- 
lect carving  for  others,  I  did  forget  to 
remember  myself.  Not  that  I  need 
have  forgot  it  to-day,  madam;  but, 
being  used  to  forget  it,  I  did  not  re- 
member not  to  forget  it  to-day,  mad- 
am, that  was  all."  And  the"  author 
of  this  intelligent  account  smiled  very, 
very,  very  absurdly. 

She  poured  him  out  a  glass  of  wine. 
He  rose  and  bowed  ;  but  peremptorily 
refused  it,  with  his  tongue,  — his  eye 
drank  it. 

"  But  you  must,"  persisted  this 
hospitable  lady. 

"  But,  madam,  consider  I  am  not 
entitled  to  —  Nectar,  as  I  am  a 
man  ! " 

The  white  hand  was  filling  his  plate 
with  partridge  pie :  "  But,  madam, 


PEG   WOFFIXGTON. 


67 


you  don't  consider  how  you  overwhelm 
me  with  your  —  Ambrosia,  as  I  am 
a  poet !  " 

"  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Vane  should 
keep  you  waiting." 

"  By  no  means,  madam  ;  it  is  fortu- 
nate, —  I  mean  it  procures  me  the 
pleasure  of"  (here  articulation  became 
obstructed)  "your  society,  madam 
Besides,  the  servants  of  the  Muse  arc 
used  to  waiting.  What  we  are  not 
used  to  is  "  (here  the  white  hand  filled 
his  glass)  "  being  waited  upon  by 
Hebe  and  the  Twelve  Graces,  whose 
health  I  have  the  honor  "  —  (Degluti- 
tion.) 

"  A  poet !  "  cried  Mabel ;  "  oh  !  I 
am  so  glad  !  Little  did  I  think  ever  to 
see  a  living  poet !  Dear  heart !  I 
should  not  have  known,  if  you  had 
not  told  me.  Sir,  I  love  poetry  !  " 

"  It  is  in  your  face,  madam."  Trip- 
let instantly  whipped  out  his  manu- 
script, put  a  plate  on  one  corner  of  it, 
and  a  decanter  on  the  other,  and 
begged  her  opinion  of  this  trifle,  com- 
posed, said  he,  "  in  honor  of  a  lady 
Mr.  Vane  entertains  to-day." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Mrs.  Vane,  and  col- 
ored with  pleasure.  How  ungrateful 
she  had  heen !  Here  was  an  atten- 
tion !  —  For,  of  course,  she  never 
doubted  that  the  verses  were  in  honor 
of  her  arrival. 

"'Bright  being— '" 

sang  out  Triplet. 

"  Nay,  sir,  said  Mabel ;  "  I  think 
I  know  the  lady,  and  it  would  be 
hardly  proper  of  me  —  " 

"  O  madam  !  "  said  Triplet,  sol- 
emnly ;  "  strictly  correct,  madam ! " 
And  he  spread  his  hand  out  over  his 
bosom.  "  Strictly !  — '  Blunderbuss ' 
(my  poetical  name,  madam)  never 
stooped  to  the  taste  of  the  town. 

'  Bright  being,  thou  — '  " 

"  But  you  must  have  another  glass 
of  wine  first,  and  a  slice  of  the 
haunch.'" 

"  With  alacrity,  madam."  He  laid 
in  a  fresh  stock  of  provisions. 

Strange  it  was  to  sec  them  side  by 


!  side !  he,  a  Don  Quixote,  with  cord- 
j  age  instead  of  lines  in  his  mahogany 
face,  and  clothes  hanging  upon  him  ; 
site,  smooth,  duck-like,  delicious,  and 
bright  as  an  opening  rose  fresh  with 
dew ! 

She  watched  him  kindly,  archly, 
and  demurely ;  and  still  plied  him, 
country-wise,  with  every  mortal  thing 
on  the  table. 

But  the  poet  was  not  a  boa-con- 
strictor, and  even  a  boa-constrictor 
has  an  end.  Hunger  satisfied,  his 
next  strongest  feeling,  simple  vanity, 
remained  to  be  contented.  As  the 
last  morsel  went  in  out  came  :  — 

"  '  Bright  being,  thou  whose  ra — ' " 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  she,  who  fancied 
herself  (and  not  without  reason)  the 
bright  being.  "  Mr.  Vane  intended 
them  for  a  surprise." 

"  As  you  please,  madam  " ;  and  the 
disappointed  bore  sighed.  "  But  you 
would  have  liked  them,  for  the  theme 
inspired  me.  The  kindest,  the  most 
generous  of  women !  Don't  you 
agree  with  me,  madam  ? " 

Mabel  Vane  opened  her  eyes. 
"  Hardly,  sir,"  laughed  she. 

"  If  you  knew  her  as  I  do." 

"  I  ought  to  know  her  better,  sir." 

"  Ay,  indeed !  Well,  madam,  now 
her  kindness  to  me,  for  instance,  —  a 
poor  devil  like  me.  The  expression, 
I  trust,  is  not  disagreeable  to  you, 
madam  ?  If  so,  forgive  me,  and  con- 
sider it  withdrawn." 

"  La,  sir  !  civility  is  so  cheap,  if  you 
go  to  that." 

"  Civility,  ma'am  ?  Why,  she  has 
saved  me  from  despair,  —  from  starva- 
tion, perhaps." 

"Poor  thing!  Well,  indeed,  sir, 
you  looked  —  you  looked  —  what  a 
shame !  and  you  a  poet." 

"  From  an  epitaph  to  an  epic,  mad- 
am." 

At  this  moment  a  figure  looked  in 
upon  them  from  the  garden,  but 
retreated  unobserved.  It  was  Sir 
Charles  Pomander,  who  had  slipped 
away,  with  the  heartless  and  malicious 
intention  of  exposing  the  husband  to 


68 


PEG  WOFFTOGTON. 


the  wife,  and  profiting  by  her  indig- 
nation and  despair.  Seeing  Triplet, 
he  made  an  extemporaneous  calcula- 
tion that  so  infernal  a  chatterbox 
could  not  be  ten  minutes  in  her  com- 
panv  without  telling  her  everything, 
and  this  would  serve  his  turn  very 
well.  He  therefore  postponed  his  pur- 
pose, and  strolled  away  to  a  short  dis- 
tance. 

Triplet  justified  the  Baronet's  opin- 
ion. Without  any  sort  of  scqucncy 
lie  now  informed  Mrs.  Vane  that  the 
benevolent  lady  was  to  sit  to  him  for 
her  portrait. 

Here  was  a  new  attention  of  Er- 
nest's. How  good  he  was,  and  how 
wicked  and  ungrateful  she ! 

"  What !  are  you  a  painter  too  ?  " 
she  inquired. 

"From  a  house  front  to  an  histor- 
ical composition,  madam." 

"  O,  what  a  clever  man !  And  so 
Ernest  commissioned  you  to  paint  a 
portrait  1  " 

"  No,  madam ;  for  that  I  am  in- 
debted to  the  lady  herself." 

"The  lady  herself?" 

"  Yes,  madam  ;  and  I  expected  to 
find  her  here.  Will  you  add  to  your 
kindness  by  informing  me  whether 
she  has  arrived  ?  Or  she  is  gone  —  " 

"  Who,  sir  ?  (O  dear !  not  my 
portrait !  O  Ernest !)  " 

"  Who,  madam !  "  cried  Triplet ; 
"  why,  Mrs.  Woffington  !  " 

"  She  is  not  here,"  said  Mrs.  Vane, 
who  remembered  all  the  names  per- 
fectly well.  "  There  is  one  charm- 
ing lady  among  our  guests,  her  face 
took  me  in  a  moment ;  but  she  is  a 
titled  lady  :  there  is  no  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton amongst  them." 

"  Strange  !  "  replied  Triplet ;  "  she 
was  to  be  here ;  and  in  fact  that  is 
why  I  expedited  these  lines  in  her 
honor." 

"  In  her  honor,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam.     Allow  me  :  — 

'  Bright  being,  thou  whose  radiant  brow  — '  " 

"  Xo !  no !  I  don't  care  to  hear 
them  now,  for  I  don't  know  the 
lady." 


"  Well,  madam,  but  at  least  you 
have  seen  her  act  ?  " 

"  Act !  you  don't  mean  all  this  is 
for  an  actress  ?  " 

"  An  actress  ?  The  actress  !  And 
you  have  never  seen  her  act  ?  What 
a  pleasure  you  have  to  come  !  To 
see  her  act  is  a  privilege ;  but  to  act 
with  her,  as  1  once  did  !  But  she 
docs  not  remember  that,  nor  shall  I 
remind  her,  madam,"  said  Triplet, 
sternly.  "  On  that  occasion  I  was 
hissed,  owing  to  circumstances  which, 
for  the  credit  of  our  common  nature, 
I  suppress." 

"What!  arc  you  an  actor  too? 
You  are  everything." 

"  And  it  was  in  a  force  of  my  own, 
madam,  which,  by  the  strangest  com- 
bination of  accidents,  was  damned  !  " 

"  A  play-writer  ?  O,  what  clever 
men  there  are  in  the  world  —  in  Lon- 
don, at  least  !  He  is  a  play-writer, 
too.  I  wonder  my  husband  comes 
not.  Docs  Mr.  Vane  —  docs  Mr. 
Vane  admire  this  actress  ?  "  said  she, 
suddenly. 

"  Mr.  Vane,  madam,  is  a  gentle- 
man of  taste,"  said  he,  pompously. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  la<ly,  languid- 
ly, "she  is  not  here."  Triplet  took 
the  hint  and  rose.  "  Good  by,"  said 
she,  sweetly  ;  "  and  thank  you  kind- 
ly for  your  company,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  " 

"  Triplet,  madam, — James  Triplet, 
of  10,  Hercules  Buildings,  Lambeth. 
Occasional  verses,  odes,  epithalamia, 
elegies,  dedications,  squibs,  impromp- 
tus, and  hymns  executed  with  spirit, 
punctuality,  and  secrecy.  Portraits 
painted,  and  instruction  in  declama- 
tion, sacred,  profane,  and  dramatic. 
The  card,  madam  "  (and  he  drew  it 
as  doth  a  theatrical  fop  his  rapier) 
"of  him  who,  to  all  these  qualifica- 
tions, adds  a  prouder  still  —  that  of 
being, 

"  Madam, 

"  Your  humble,  devoted,  and  grateful 
servant, 

"  JAMES  TRIPLET." 

He  bowed  in  a  line  from  his 
right  shoulder  to  his  left  toe,  and 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


69 


moved  off.  But  Triplet  could  not  go 
all  at  one  time  out  of  such  company  ; 
he  v/a.s  given  to  return  in  real  life,  he 
had  played  this  trick  so  often  on  the 
stage,  "lie  came  back,  exuberant 
with  gratitude. 

"  The  fact  is,  madam,"  said  he, 
"  strange  as  it  may  appear  to  yon,  a 
kind  hand  has  not  so  often  been  held 
out  to  me,  that  I  should  forget  it, 
especially  when  that  hand  is  so  fair 
and  gracious.  May  I  be  permitted, 
madam  —  yon  will  impute  it  to  grati- 
tude rather  than  audacity  —  I  — 
I — "  (whimper),  "madam"  (with 
sudden  severity),  "  I  am  gone  !  " 

These  last  words  he  pronounced 
with  tha  right  arm  at  an  angle  of 
forty-five  degrees,  and  the  fingers 
pointing  horizontally.  The  stage  had 
taught  him  this  grace  also.  In  his 
day,  an  actor  who  had  three  words 
to  say,  such  as  "  My  lord's  carriage 
is  waiting,"  came  on  the  stage  with 
the  right  arm  thus  elevated,  delivered 
his  message  in  the  tones  of  a  falling 
dynasty,  wheeled  like  a  soldier,  and 
retired  with  the  left  arm  pointing  to 
the  sky,  and  the  right  hand  extended 
behind  him  like  a  setter's  tail. 

Left  to  herself,  Mabel  was  uneasy. 
"  Ernest  is  so  warm-hearted."  This 
was  the  way  she  put  it  even  to  her- 
self. '  He  admired  her  acting,  and 
wished  to  pay  her  a  compliment. 
"  What  if  I  carried  him  the  verses  ?  " 
She  thought  she  should  surely  please 
him  by  showing  she  was  not  the  least 
jealous  or  doubtful  of  him.  The 
poor  child  wanted  so  to  win  a  kind 
look  from  her  husband  ;  but,  ere  she 
could  reach  the  window,  Sir  Charles 
Pomander  had  entered  it. 

Now  Sir  Charles  was  naturally 
welcome  to  Mrs.  Vane ;  for  all  she 
knew  of  him  was,  that  he  had  helped 
her  on  the  road  to  her  husband. 

Pomander.  "  What,  madam !  all 
alone  here  as  in  Shropshire  ?  " 

Mabel.   "  For  the  moment,  sir." 

Pomander.  "  Force  of  habit.  A 
husband  with  a  wife  in  Shropshire  is 
so  like  a  bachelor." 

Mabd.   "Sir!" 


Pomander.  "  And  our  excellent 
Ernest  is  such  a  favorite  !  " 

Malxl.    "  No  wonder,  sir." 

Pomander.  "  Few  can  so  pa«s  from 
the  larva  state  of  country  squire  to 
the  butterfly  nature  of  beau." 

Mabd.  "  Yes  "  (sadly),  "  I  find  him 
changed." 

Pomander.  "  Changed  !  Trans- 
formed. He  is  now  the  prop  of  the 
'  Cocoa-Tree,'  the  star  of  Ilanela-h, 
the  Lauzun  of  the  green-room." 

Mabel.  "  The  green-room !  Where 
is  that  ?  You  mean  kindly,  sir  ;  but 
you  make  me  unhappy." 

Pomander.  "  The  green-room,  my 
dear  madam,  is  the  bower  where 
houris  put  off  their  wings,  and  god- 
desses become  dowdies ;  where  Lady 
Macbeth  weeps  over  her  lap-dog,  dead 
from  repletion ;  and  Belvidera  soothes 
her  broken  heart  with  a  dozen  of  oys- 
ters :  in  a  word,  it  is  the  place  where 
actors  and  actresses  become  men  and 
women,  and  act  their  own  parts  with 
skill,  instead  of  a  poet's  clumsily." 

Mabel.  "  Actors  !  actresses !  Does 
Mr.  Vane  frequent  such  —  " 

Pomander.  "  He  has  earned  in  six 
months  a  reputation  many  a  fine  gen- 
tleman would  give  his  ears  for.  Not 
a  scandalous  journal  his  initials  have 
not  figured  in ;  not  an  actress  of  rep- 
utation gossip  has  not  given  him  for 
a  conquest." 

"  How  dare  you  say  this  to  me  ?  " 
cried  Mrs.  Vane,  with  a  sudden  flash 
of  indignation,  and  then  the  tears 
streamed  over  her  lovely  cheeks ;  and 
even  a  Pomander  might  have  for- 
borne to  torture  her  so ;  but  Sir 
Charles  had  no  mercy. 

"  You  would  be  sure  to  learn  it," 
said  he ;  "  and  with  malicious  addi- 
tions. It  is  better  to  hear  the  truth 
from  a  friend." 

"•A  friend?  He  is  no  friend  to  a 
house  who  calumniates  the  husband 
to  the  wife.  Is  it  the  part  of  a  friend 
to  distort  dear  Ernest's  kindliness 
and  gayety  into  ill  morals ;  to  pervert 
his  love  of  poetry  and  plays  into  an 
unworthy  attachment  to  actors  and  — 
oh ! "  and  the  tears  would  come.  But 


70 


PEG   WOFFIXGTON. 


she  dried  them,  for  now  she  hated 
this  man  ;  with  all  the  little  power  of 
hatred  she  had,  she  detested  him. 
"  Do  you  suppose  I  did  not  know 
Mrs.  Woffington  was  to  come  to  us 
to-day  ?  "  cried  she,  struggling  pas- 
sionately against  her  own  fears  and 
Sir  Charles's  innuendoes. 

"  What !  "  cried  he  ;  "  you  recog- 
nized her  ?  You  detected  the  actress 
of  all  work  under  the  airs  of  Lady 
Betty  Modish  ?  " 

"  Lady  Betty  Modish !  "  cried  Ma- 
bel :  "  that  good,  beautiful  face  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Sir  Charles,  "  I  see 
you  did  not.  Well,  Lady  Bettv  was 
Mrs.  Woffington !  " 

"  Whom  my  husband,  I  know,  had 
invited  here  to  present  her  with  these 
verses,  which  I  shall  take  him  for 
her  " ;  and  her  poor  little  lip  trem- 
bled. "  Had  the  visit  been  in  any 
other  character,  as  you  arc  so  base, 
so  cruel  as  to  insinuate,  (what  have  I 
done  to  you  that  you  kill  me  so,  you 
•wicked  gentleman  ?)  w6uld  he  have 
chosen  the  day  of  my  arrival  ?  " 

"  Not  if  he  knew  you  were  coming," 
was  the  cool  reply. 

"  And  he  did  know,  —  I  wrote  to 
him." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Pomander,  fairly 
puzzled. 

Mrs.  Vane  caught  sight  of  her 
handwriting  on  the  tray,  and  darted 
to  it,  and  seized  her  letter,  and  said, 
ti-iumphantly :  — 

"  My  last  letter,  written  upon  the 
road,  —  see  !  " 

Sir  Charles  took  it  with  surprise, 
but,  tuniing  it  in  .his  hand,  a  cool,  sa- 
tirical smile  came  to  his  face.  He 
handed  it  back,  and  said,  coldly  :  — 

"  Read  me  the  passage,  madam,  on 
which  you  argue." 

Poor  Mrs.  Vane  turned  the  letter 
in  her  hand,  and  her  eye  became. in- 
stantly glazed ;  the  seal  was  unbro- 
ken !  She  gave  a  sharp  cry  of  agony, 
like  a  wounded  deer.  She  saw  Po- 
mander no  longer ;  she  was  alone 
with  her  great  anguish.  "  I  had  but 
my  husband  and  my  God  in  the 
world,"  cried  she.  "  My  mother  is 


gone.  My  God,  have  pity  on  me !  my 
husband  does  not  love  me." 

The  cold  villain  was  startled  at  the 
mighty  storm  his  mean  hand  had 
raised.  This  creature  had  not  only 
more  feeling,  but  more  passion,  than 
a  hundred  libertines.  He  muttered 
some  villain's  commonplaces  ;  while 
this  unhappy  young  lady  raised  her 
hands  to  heaven,  and  sobbed  in  a  way 
very  terrible  to  any  manly  heart. 

"  He  is  unworthy  you,"  muttered 
Pomander.  "  He  has  forfeited  your 
love :  he  has  left  you  nothing  but 
revenge.  Be  comforted.  Let  me, 
who  have  learned  already  to  adore 
you  —  " 

"  So,"  cried  she,  turning  on  him  in 
a  moment  (for,  on  some  points,  wo- 
man's instinct  is  the  lightning  of  wis- 
dom), "this,  sir,  was  your  object •  ? 
I  may  no  longer  hold  a  place  in  my 
husband's  heart;  but  I  am  mistress 
of  his  house.  Leave  it.  sir !  and  never 
return  to  it  whilst  I  live." 

Sir  Charles,  again  discomfited, 
bowed  reverentially.  "  Your  wish 
shall  ever  be  respected  by  me,  mad- 
am !  But  here  they  come.  Use  the 
right  of  a  wife.  Conceal  yourself  in 
that  high  chair.  See,  I  turn  it ;  so 
that  they  cannot  see  you.  At  least 
you  will  find  I  have  but  told  you  the 
truth." 

"  No !  "  cried  Mabel,  violently.  "  I 
will  not  spy  upon  my  husband  at  the 
dictation  of  his  treacherous  friend." 

Sir  Charles  vanished.  He  was 
no  sooner  gone  than  Mrs.  Vane 
crouched,  trembling,  and  writhing 
with  jealousy,  in  the  large,  high- 
backed  chair.  She  heard  her  husband 
and  the  soi-tlisant  Lady  Betty  Modish 
enter.  During  their  absence,  Mrs. 
Woffington  had  doubtless  been  play- 
ing her  cards  with  art ;  for  it  ap- 
peared that  a  reconciliation  was  now 
taking  place.  The  lady,  however, 
was  still  cool  and  distant.  It  was 
poor  Mabel's  fate  to  hear  these 
words  :  "  You  must  permit  me  to  go 
alone,  Mr.  Vane.  I  insist  upon  leav- 
ing this  house  alone." 

On  this,  he  whispered  to  her. 


PEG   WOFFINGTON. 


71 


She  answered:  "You  are  not  jus- 
tified." 

"  I  can  explain  all,"  was  his  reply. 
"  I  am  ready  to  renounce  credit,  char- 
acter, all  the  world  for  you." 

They  passed  out  of  the  room  before 
the  unhappy  listener  could  recover 
the  numbing  influence  of  these  deadly 
words. 

But  the  next  moment  she  started 
wildly  up,  and  cried  as  one  drowning 
cries  vaguely  for  help  :  "  Ernest !  oh, 
no  —  no!  you  cannot  use  me  so! 
Ernest  —  husband  !  0  mother  !  moth- 
er!" 

She  rose,  and  would  have  made  for 
the  door,  but  nature  had  been  too 
cruelly  tried.  At  the  first  step  she 
could  no  longer  see  anything;  and 
the  next  moment,  swooning  dead 
away,  she  fell  back  insensible,  with 
her  head  and  shoulders  resting  on  the 
chair. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MR. VANE  was  putting  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington  into  her  chair,  when  he 
thought  he  heard  his  name  cried.  He 
bade  that  lady  a  mournful  farewell, 
and  stepped  back  into  his  own  hall. 
He  had  no  sooner  done  so,  than  he 
heard  a  voice,  the  accent  of  which 
alarmed  him,  though  he  distinguished 
no  word.  He  hastily  crossed  the  hall, 
and  flew  into  the  banquet-room. 
Coming  rapidly  in  at  the  folding- 
doors  he  almost  fell  over  his  wife,  ly- 
ing insensible,  half  upon  the  floor, 
and  half  upon  the  chair.  When  he 
saw  her  pale  and  motionless,  a  terri- 
ble misgiving  seized  him ;  he  fell  on 
his  knees. 

"  Mabel,  Mabel !  "  cried  he,  "  my 
love  !  my  innocent  wife  !  O  God  ! 
what  have  I  done  ?  Perhaps  it  is  the 
fatigue,  — perhaps  she  has  fainted." 

"  No,  it  is  not  the  fatigue ! " 
screamed  a  voice  near  him.  It  was 
old  James  Burdock,  who,  with  his 
white  hair  streaming,  and  his  eye 
gleaming  with  fire,  shook  his  fist  in 
his  master's  face,  —  "  no,  it  is  not  the 


fatigue,  you  villain !  It  is  you  who 
have  killed  her,  with  your  Jezebels 
and  harlots,  you  scoundrel !  " 

"  Send  the  women  here,  James,  for 
God's  sake ! "  cried  Mr.  Vane,  not 
even  noticing  the  insult  he  had  re- 
ceived from  a  sen-ant.  He  stamped 
furiously,  and  cried  for  help.  The 
whole  household  was  round  her  in  a 
moment.  They  carried  her  to  bed. 

The  remorse-stricken  man,  his  own 
knees  trembling  under  him,  flew,  in 
an  agony  of  fear  and  self-reproach, 
for  a  doctor ! 

A  doctor  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

DURING  the  garden  scene,  Mr. 
Vane  had  begged  Mrs.  Woffington  to 
let  him  accompany  her.  She  peremp- 
torily refused,  and  said  in  the  same 
breath  she  was  going  to  Triplet,  in 
Hercules  Buildings,  to  have  her  por- 
trait finished. 

Had  Mr.  Vane  understood  the  sex, 
he  would  not  have  interpreted  her  re- 
fusal to  the  letter ;  when  there  was  a 
postscript,  the  meaning  of  which  was 
so  little  enigmatical. 

Some  three  hours  after  the  scene 
we  have  described,  Mrs.  Woffington 
sat  in  Triplet's  apartment ;  and  Trip- 
let, palette  in  hand,  painted  away  up- 
on her  portrait. 

Mrs.  Woffington  was  in  that  lan- 
guid state  which  comes  to  women 
after  their  hearts  have  received  a 
blow.  She  felt  as  if  life  was  ended, 
and  but  the  dregs  of  existence  re- 
mained ;  but  at  times  a  flood  of  bit- 
terness rolled  over  her,  and  she  re- 
signed all  hope  of  perfect  happiness 
in  this  world,  — all  hope  of  loving  and 
respecting  the  same  creature ;  and  at 
these  moments  she  had  but  one  idea, 
—  to  use  her  own  power,  and  bind 
her  lover  to  her  by  chains  never  to  be 
broken ;  and  to  close  her  eyes,  and 
glide  down  the  precipice  of  the  fu- 
ture. 

"  I  think  you  are  master  of  this 


72 


PEG  WOFFINQTON. 


art,"  said  she,  very  languidly,  to  Trip- 
let, "you  paint  so  rapidly." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  Triplet,  gloom- 
ily ;  and  painted  on.  "  Confound  this 
shadow  !  "  added  he ;  and  painted  on. 

His  soul,  too,  was  clouded.  Mrs. 
Woffington,  yawning  in  his  face,  had 
told  him  she  had  invited  all  Mr. 
Vane's  company  to  come  and  praise 
his  -work ;  and  ever  since  that  he  had 
been  morne  ct  silcncieux. 

"  You  arj  fortunate,"  continued 
Mrs.  Woffington,  not  caring  what 
she  said ;  "  it  is  so  difficult  to  make 
exccr.tion  keep  pace  with  concep- 
tion." 

"  Yes,  ma'am "  ;  and  he  painted 
on. 

"  Y'ou  are  satisfied  with  it  ?  " 

"Anything  but,  ma'am";  and  he 
painted  on. 

"  Cheerful  soul !  —  then  I  presume 
it  is  like  1 " 

"  Xot  a  bit,  ma'am  " ;  and  he  paint- 
ed on. 

Mrs.  WofTmgtcn  stretched. 

"  You  cun't  yawn,  nia'ani,  —  you 
can't  yawn." 

"  O  ye:;,  I  can.  You  are  such 
good  company " ;  and  she  stretched 
again. 

"  I  was  just  about  to  catch  the  turn 
of  the  lip,"  remonstrated  Triplet. 

"Well,  catch  it,  —  it  won't  run 
away." 

"  I  '11  try.'ma'am.  A  pleasant  half- 
hour  it  will  be  for  me,  when  they  all 
come  here  like  cits  at  a  shilling  ordi- 
nary, —  each  for  his  cut." 

"  At  a  sensitive  goose ! " 

"  That  is  as  may be,  madam.  Those 
critics  flay  us  alive  ! " 

"Y'ou  should  not  hold  so  many 
doors  open  to  censure." 

"  Xo,  ma'am.  Head  a  little  mere 
that  way.  I  suppose  you  can't  sit 
quiet,  nia'am  ?  —  then  never  mind !  " 
(This  resignation  was  intended  as 
a  Gtinging  reproach.)  "Mr.  Cibber, 
•with  his  sneering  snuff-box !  Mr. 
Quin,  v.-ith  his  humorous  bludgeon ! 
Mrs.  dive,  v.-itli  her  tongue!  Mr. 
Snarl,  with  his  abuse !  And  Mr. 
Soapcr,  with  his  praise !  —  arsenic  iii 


treacle  I  call  it !  But  there,  I  deserve 
it  all !  For  look  on  this  picture,  and 
on  this !  " 

"  Meaning,  I  am  painted  as  well  as 
my  picture !  " 

"  O  no,  no,  no  !  But  to  turn  from 
your  face,  madam,  —  on  which  the 
lightning  of  expression  plays  contin- 
ually, —  to  this  stony,  detestable,  dead 
daub  !  —  I  could —  And  I  will,  too  ! 
Imposture !  dead  caricature  of  life  and 
beauty,  take  that !  "  and  he  dashed 
his  palette-knife  through  the  canvas. 
"  Libellous  lie  against  nature  and 
Mrs.  Woffington,  take  that ! "  and  he 
stabbed  the  canvas  again ;  then,  with 
sudden  humility:  "I  beg  your  par- 
don, ma'am,"  said  he,  "  for  this  ap- 
parent outrage,  which  I  trust  you  will 
set  down  to  the  excitement  attendant 
upon  failure.  The  fact  is,  I  am  an 
incapable  ass,  and  no  painter!  Oth- 
ers have  often  hinted  as  much;  but 
I  never  observed  it  myself  till 
now ! " 

"  Right  through  my  pet  dimple  ! " 
said  Mrs.  Woffington,  with  perfect 
nonchalance.  "  Well,  now  I  suppose 
I  may  yawn,  or  do  what  I  like  ? 

"  You  may,  madam,"  said  Triplet, 
gravely.  "  I  have  forfeited  what  lit- 
tle control  I  had  over  you,  madam." 

So  they  sat  opposite  each  other,  in 
mournful  silence.  At  length  the  ac- 
tress suddenly  rose.  She  struggled 
fiercely  against  her  depression,  and 
vowed  that  melancholy  should  not  be- 
numb her  spirits  and  her  power. 

"  He  ougnt  to  have  been  here  by 
this  time,"  said  she  to  herself. 
"  Well,  I  will  not  mope  for  him  :  I 
must  do  something.  Triplet,"  said 
she. 

"  Madam." 

"Nothing." 

"Xo,  madam." 

She  sat  gently  down  again,  and 
leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  and 
thought.  She  was  beautiful  as  sho 
thought !  —  her  body  seemed  bristling 
with  mind !  At  last,  her  thoughtful 
gravity  was  illumined  by  a  smile :  s!:e 
had  thought  out  something  excoyitavc- 
rat. 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


73 


"Triplet,  the  picture  is  quite  ru- 
ined ! " 

"  Yes,  madam.  And  a  coach-load 
of  criticism  coming ! " 

"  Triplet,  we  actors  and  actresses 
have  often  bright  ideas." 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  When  we  take  other  people's  ! " 

"  He,  he !  "  went  Triplet.  "  Those 
are  our  best,  madam ! 

"  Well,  sir,  I  have  got  a  bright 
idea." 

"  You  don't  say  so,  ma'am !  " 

"  Don't  be  a  brute,  dear !  "  said  the 
lady,  gravely. 

Triplet  stared ! 

"  When  I  was  in  France,  taking 
lessons  of  Dumesnil,  one  of  the  actors 
of  the  Theatre  Fran9ais  had  his  por- 
trait painted  by  a  rising  artist.  The 
others  were  to  come  and  see  it. 
They  determined,  beforehand,  to  mor- 
tify the  painter  and  the  sitter,  by 
abusing  the  work  in  good  set  terms. 
But  somehow  this  got  wind,  and  the 
patients  resolved  to  be  the  physicians. 
They  put  their  heads  together,  and 
contrived  that  the  living  face  should 
be  in  the  canvas,  surrounded  by  the 
accessories :  these,  of  course,  were 
painted.  Enter  the  actors,  who 
played  their  little  prearranged  farce ; 
and,  when  they  had  each  given  the 
picture  a  slap,  the  picture  rose  and 
laughed  in  their  faces,  and  discom- 
fited them !  By  the  by,  the  painter 
did  not  stop  there  :  he  was  not  con- 
tent with  a  short  laugh,  he  laughed  at 
them  five  hundred  years !  " 

"  Good  gracious,  Mrs.  Welling- 
ton ! " 

"  He  painted  a  picture  of  the  whole 
thing ;  and  as  his  work  is  immortal, 
ours  an  April  snow-flake,  he  has  got 
tremendously  the  better  of  those  rash 
little  satirists.  Well,  Trip,  what  is 
sauce  for  the  gander  is  sauce  for  the 
goose  ;  so  give  me  the  sharpest  knife 
in  the  house." 

Triplet  gave  her  a  knife,  and 
looked  confused,  while  she  cut  away 
the  face  of  the  picture,  and  by  dint  of 
scraping,  cutting,  and  measuring,  got 
her  face  two  parts  through  the  can- 


vas. She  then  made  him  take  his 
brush  and  paint  all  round  her  face, 
so  that  the  transition  might  not  be 
too  abrupt.  Several  yards  of  green 
baize  were  also  produced.  This  was 
to  be  disposed  behind  the  easel,  so  as 
to  conceal  her. 

Triplet  painted  here,  and  touched 
and  retouched  there.  Whilst  thus 
occupied,  he  said,  in  his  calm,  resigned 
way  :  "  It  won't  do,  madam.  I  sup- 
pose you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing,"  was  the  reply. 
"  Life  is  a  guess.  I  don't  think  we 
could  deceive  Roxalana  and  Lucy 
this  way,  because  their  eyes  are  with- 
out colored  spectacles  ;  but,  when  peo- 
ple have  once  begun  to  see  by  preju- 
dices and  judge  by  jargon,  what  can't 
be  done  with  them  ?  Who  knows  ? 
do  you  ?  I  don't ;  so  let  us  try." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam  ;  my 
brush  touched  your  face." 

"  No  offence,  sir ;  I  am  used  to 
that.  And  I  beg,  if  you  can't  tone 
the  rest  of  the  picture  up  to  me,  that 
you  will  instantly  tone  me  down  to 
the  rest.  Let  us  be  in  tune,  whatever 
it  costs,  sir." 

"  I  will  avail  myself  of  the  privi- 
lege, madam,  but  sparingly.  Failure, 
which  is  certain,  madam,  will  cover 
us  with  disgrace." 

"  Nothing  is  certain  in  this  life,  sir, 
except  that  you  are  a  goose.  It  suc- 
ceeded in  France ;  and  England  can 
match  all  Europe  for  fools.  Besides, 
it  will  be  well  done.  They  say  Davy 
Garrick  can  turn  his  eyes  into  bottled 
gooseberries.  Well,  Peg  Woffington 
will  turn  hers  into  black  currants. 
Haven't  you  done?  I  wonder  they 
have  not  come.  Make  haste ! " 

"  They  will  know  by  its  beauty  I 
never  did  it." 

"  That  is  a  sensible  remark,  Trip. 
But  I  think  they  will  rather  argue 
backwards  ;  that,  as  you  did  it,  it  can- 
not be  beautiful,  and  so  cannot  be  me. 
Your  reputation  will  be  our  shield. 

"  Well,  madam,  now  you  mention 
it,  they  are  like  enough  to  take  that 
ground.  They  despise  all  I  do;  if 
they  did  not  —  " 


74 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


"  You  would  despise  them." 

At  this  moment  the  pair  were  star- 
tled by  the  sound  of  a  coach.  Trip- 
let turned  as  pale  as  ashes.  Mrs. 
Woffington  had  her  misgivings  ;  but, 
not  choosing  to  increase  the  difficulty, 
she  would  not  let  Triplet,  whose  self- 
possession  she  doubted,  see  any  sign 
of  emotion  in  her. 

"  Lock  the  door,"  said  she,  firmly, 
"  and  don't  be  silly.  Now  hold  up 
my  green  baize  petticoat,  and  let  me 
be  in  a  half-light.  Now  put  that 
table  and  those  chairs  before  me,  so 
that  they  can't  come  right  up  to  me  ; 
and,  Triplet,  don't  let  them  come 
within  six  yards,  if  you  can  help  it. 
Say  it  is  unfinished,  and  so  must  be 
seen  from  a  focus." 

"A  focus  !  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

"  No  more  do  I ;  no  more  will  they, 
perhaps ;  and,  if  they  don't,  they  will 
swallow  it  directly.  Unlock  the 
door  :  are  they  coming  ?  " 

"  They  are  only  at  the  first  stair." 

"  Mr.  Triplet,  your  face  is  a  book, 
where  one  may  read  strange  matters. 
For  Heaven's  sake,  compose  your- 
self: let  all  the  risk  lie  in  one  counte- 
nance. Look  at  me,  sir.  Make 
your  face  like  the  Book  of  Daniel  in 
a  Jew's  back  parlor.  Volto  Sciolto 
is  your  cue." 

"  Madam,  madam,  how  your  tongue 
goes !  I  hear  them  on  the  stairs : 
pray  don't  speak !  " 

"  Do  vou  know  what  we  are  going 
to  do  ? J'  continued  the  tormenting 
Peggy.  "  We  arc  going  to  weigo 
goose's  feathers !  to  criticise  criticism, 
Trip  —  " 

"Hush!  hush!" 

A  grampus  was  heard  outside  the 
door,  and  Triplet  opened  it.  There 
was  Quin  leading  the  band. 

"  Have  a  care,  sir,"  cried  Triplet ; 
"  there  is  a  hiatus  the  third  step  from 
the  door." 

"A  gradus  ad  Parnassum  a  want- 
ing," said  Mr.  Gibber. 

Triplet's  heart  sank.  The  hole  had 
been  there  six  months,  and  he  had 
found  nothing  witty  to  say  about  it, 


and  at  first  sight  Mr.  Gibber  had 
done  its  business.  And  on  such  men 
he  and  his  portrait  were  to  attempt  a 
!  preposterous  delusion.  Then  there 
was  Snarl,  who  wrote  critiques  on 
painting,  and  guided  the  national 
taste.  The  unlucky  exhibitor  was  in 
a  cold  sweat.  He  led  the  way  like  a 
thief  going  to  the  gallows. 

"  The  picture  being  unfinished, 
gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  must,  if  you 
would  do  me  justice,  be  seen  from  a 
—  a  focus  :  must  be  judged  from  here, 
I  mean." 

"Where,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Gibber. 

"  About  here,  sir,  if  you  please," 
said  poor  Triplet,  faintly. 

"  It  looks  like  a  finished  picture 
from  here,"  said  Mrs.  Clive. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  groaned  Triplet. 

They  all  took  up  a  position,  and 
Triplet  timidly  raised  his  eyes  along 
with  the  rest :  he  was  a  little  sur- 
prised. The  actress  had  flattened  her 
face!  She  had  done  all  that  could 
be  done,  and  more  than  he  had  con- 
ceived possible,  in  the  way  of  extract- 
ing life  and  the  atmosphere  of  expres- 
sion from  her  countenance.  She  was 
"  dead  still !  " 

There  was  a  pause. 

Triplet  fluttered.  At  last  some  of 
them  spoke  as  follows  :  — 

Soaper.     "  Ah ! " 

Quin.     "Ho!" 

Clive.     "  Eh  !  " 

Gibber.     "  Humph ! " 

These  interjections  are  small  on 
paper,  but  as  the  good  creatures 
uttered  them  they  were  eloquent  ; 
there  was  a  cheerful  variety  of  dis- 
praise skilfully  thrown  into"  each  of 
them. 

"  Well,"  continued  Soaper,  with  his 
everlasting  smile. 

Then  the  fun  began. 

"  May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  whose 
portrait  this  is  1  "  '  said  Mr.  Gibber, 
slyly. 

"  I  distinctly  told  you,  it  was  to  be 
Peg  Woflingtbn's,"  "said  Mrs.  Clive. 
"  I  think  you  might  take  my  word." 

"Do  you  act  as  truly  as  you  paint  1 " 
said  Quin. 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


75 


"  Yonr  fame  runs  no  risk  from  me, 
sir !  "  replied  Triplet. 

"  It  is  not  like  Peggy's  beauty ! 
Eli  ?  "  rejoined  Quin. 

"  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  cried 
Kitty  Clive.  "*I  think  it  a  very 
pretty  face;  and  not  at  all  like  Peg 
Womngton's." 

"  Compare  paint  with  paint,"  said 
Quin.  "  Are  you  sure  you  ever  saw 
down  to  Peggy's  real  face  ?  " 

Triplet  had  seen  with  alarm  that 
Mr.  Snarl  spoke  not ;  many  satirical 
expressions  crossed  his  face,  hut  he 
said  nothing.  Triplet  gathered  from 
this  that  he  had  at  once  detected  the 
trick.  "Ah!"  thought  Triplet,  "  he 
means  to  quiz  them,  as  well  as  expose 
me.  He  is  hanging  back ;  and,  in 
point  of  fact,  a  mighty  satirist  like 
Snarl  would  naturally  choose  to  quiz 
six  people  rather  than  two." 

"  Now  I  call  it  beautiful  !  "  said 
the  traitor  Soaper.  "  So  calm  and 
reposeful ;  no  particular  expression." 

"  None  whatever,"  said  Snarl. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Triplet,  "  does 
it  never  occur  to  you  that  the  fine 
arts  are  tender  violets,  and  cannot 
blow  when  the  north  winds  —  " 

"Blow!"  inserted  Quin. 

"  Are  so  cursed  cutting "? "  continued 
Triplet. 

"  My  good  sir,  I  am  never  cutting ! " 
smirked  Soaper.  "My  dear  Snarl," 
whined  he,  "  give  us  the  benefit  of 
your  practised  judgment.  Do  jus- 
tice to  this  ad-mirable  work  of  art," 
drawled  the  traitor. 

"  I  will !  "  said  Mr.  Snarl ;  and 
placed  himself  before  the  picture. 

"  What  on  earth  will  he  say  ?  " 
thought  Triplet.  "  I  can  see  by  his 
face,  he  has  found  us  out." 

Mr.  Snarl  delivered  a  short  critique. 
Mr.  Snarl's  intelligence  was  not  con- 
fined to  his  phrases  ;  all  critics  use  in- 
telligent phrases  and  philosophical 
truths.  But  this  gentleman's  manner 
was  very  intelligent ;  it  was  pleasant, 
quiet,  assured,  and  very  convincing. 
Had  the  reader  or  I  been  there,  he 
would  have  carried  us  with  him,  as 
he  did  his  hearers ;  and  as  his  suc- 


cessors carry  the  public  with  them 
now. 

"  Your  brush  is  by  no  means  desti- 
tute of  talent,  Mr.  Triplet,"  said 
Mr.  Snarl.  "  But  you  are  somewhat 
deficient,  at  present,  in  the  great 
principles  of  your  art ;  the  first  of 
which  is  a  loyal  adherence  to  truth. 
Beauty  itself  is  but  one  of  the  forms 
of  truth,  and  nature  is  our  finite  ex- 
ponent of  infinite  truth." 

His  auditors  gave  -  him  a  marked 
attention.  They  could  not  but  ac- 
knowledge, that  men  who  go  to  the 
bottom  of  things  like  this  should  be 
the  best  instructors. 

"  Now,  in  nature,  a  woman's  face 
at  this  distance  —  ay,  even  at  this 
short  distance  —  melts  into  the  air. 
There  is  none  of  that  sharpness ;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  a  softness  of  outline." 
He  made  a  lorgnette  of  his  two  hands ; 
the  others  did  so  too,  and  found  they 
saw  much  better  —  oh,  ever  so  much 
better  !  "  Whereas  yours,"  resumed 
Snarl,  "is  hard;'  and,  forgive  me, 
rather  tea-board  like.  Then  your 
chiaro  scuro,  my  good  sir,  is  very  defec- 
tive ;  for.  instance,  in  nature,  the  nose, 
intercepting  the  light  on  one  side  the 
face,  throws,  of  necessity,  a  shadow 
under  the  eye.  Caravaggio,  Vene- 
tians generally,  and  the  Bolognese 
masters,  do  particular  justice  to  this. 
No  such  shade  appears  in  this  por- 
trait." 

"  'T  is  so,  stop  my  vitals  ! "  ob- 
served Colley  Gibber.  And  they  all 
looked,  and,  having  looked,  wagged 
their  heads  in  assent,  —  as  the  fat, 
white  lords  at  Christie's  waggle  fifty 
pounds  more  out  for  a  copy  of  Rem- 
brandt, a  brown  levitical  Dutchman, 
visible  in  the  pitch-dark  by  some 
sleight  of  sun  Newton  had  not  wit  to 
discover. 

Soaper  dissented  from  the  mass. 

"  But,  my  dear  Snarl,  if  there  are 
no  shades,  there  are  lights,  loads  of 
lights." 

"  There  are,"  replied  Snarl ;  "  only 
they  are  impossible,  that  is  all.  You 
have,  however,"  concluded  he,  with  a 
manner  slightly  supercilious,  "  sue- 


76 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


cecded  in  the  mechanical  parts ;  the 
hair  and  the  dress  are  well,  Mr.  Trip- 
let ;  but  your  Woffington  is  not  a  wo- 
man, nor  nature." 

They  all  nodded  and  waggled  as- 
sent ;  but  this  sagacious  motion  was 
arrested  as  by  an  earthquake. 

The  picture  rang  out,  in  the  voice 
of  a  clarion,  an  answer  that  outlived 
the  speaker  :  "  She 's  a  woman  !  for 
she  has'  taken  four  men  in  !  She  's 
nature  !  for  a  fluent  dunce  does  n't 
know  her  when  he  sees  her  ! " 

Imagine  the  tableau !  It  was 
charming!  Such  opening  of  eyes 
and  mouths  !  Gibber  fell  by  second 
nature  into  an  attitude  of  the  old 
comedy.  And  all  were  rooted  where 
they  stood,  with  surprise  and  incip- 
ient mortification,  except  Quin,  who 
slapped  his  knee,  and  took  the  trick 
at  its  value. 

Peg  Woffington  slipped  out  of  the 
green  baize,  and,  coming  round  from 
the  back  of  the  late  picture,  stood  in 
person  before  them  ;  while  they  looked 
alternately  at  her  and  at  the  hole  in 
the  canvas.  She  then  came  at  each 
of  them  in  turn,  more  dramati/co. 

"  A  pretty  face,  and  not  like  Wof- 
fington. I  owe  you  two,  Kate 
Clive." 

"  Who  ever  saw  Peggy's  real  face  ? 
Look  at  it  now  if  you  can  without 
blushing,  Mr.  Quin." 

Quin,  a  good-humored  fellow,  took 
the  wisest  view  of  his  predicament,  and 
burst  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  For  all  this,"  said  Mr  Snarl, 
peevishly,  "  I  maintain,  upon  the  un- 
alterable principles  of  art  —  "  At 
this  they  all  burst  into  a  roar,  not 
sorry  to  shift  the  ridicule.  "  Goths  !  " 
cried  Snarl,  fiercely.  "  Good  morn- 
ing, ladies  and  gentlemen,"  cried  Mr. 
Snarl,  avec  intention,  "  I  have  a  criti- 
cism to  write  of  last  night's  perform- 
ance." The  laugh  died  away  to  a 
quaver.  "  I  shall  sit  on  your  pictures 
one  day,  Mr.  Brush." 

"  Don't  sit  on  them  with  your  head 
downwards,  or  you  '11  addle  them," 
said  Mr.  Brush,  fiercely.  This  was 
the  first  time  Triplet  had  ever  an- 


swered a  foe.  Mrs.  Woffington  gave 
him  an  eloquent  glance  of  encourage- 
ment. He  nodded  his  head  in  in- 
fantine exultation  at  what  he  had 
done. 

"  Come,  Soaper,"  said  Mr.  Snarl. 

Mr.  Soaper  lingered  one  moment 
to  say  :  "  You  shall  always  have  my 
good  word,  Mr.  Triplet." 

"  I  will  try  —  and  not  deserve  it, 
Mr.  Soaper,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  Serve  'cm  right,"  said  Mr.  Gib- 
ber, as  soon  as  the  door  had  closed 
upon  them ;  "  for  a  couple  of  serpents, 
or  rather  one  toa-constrictor.  Soaper 
slavers,  for  Snarl  to  crash.  But  we 
were  all  a  little  too  hard  on  Triplet 
here  ;  and,  if  he  will  accept  my  apol- 
ogy —  " 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Triplet,  half 
trembling,  but  driven  on  by  looks 
from  Mrs.  Woffington,  " '  Gibber's 
Apology  '  is  found  to  be  a  trifle  weari- 
some." 

"  Confound  his  impertinence  ! " 
cried  the  astounded  laureate.  "  Come 
along,  Jemmy." 

"  O  sir,"  said  Quin,  good-humored- 
ly,  "we  must  give  a  joke  and  take  a 
joke.  And  when  he  paints  my  por- 
trait, —  which  he  shall  do  —  " 

"  The  bear  from  Hockley  Hole  shall 
sit  for  the  head  !  " 

"  Curse  his  impudence  !  "  roared 
Quin.  "  I  'm  at  your  service,  Mr. 
Gibber,"  added  he,  in  huge  dudgeon. 

Away  went  the  two  old  boys. 

"  Mighty  well !  "  said  waspish  Mrs. 
Clive.  "  I  did  intend  you  should  have 
painted  Mrs.  Clive.  But  after  this 
impertinence  —  " 

"  You  will  continue  to  do  it  your- 
self, ma'am  ! " 

This  was  Triplet's  hour  of  triumph. 
His  exultation  was  undignified,  and 
such  as  is  said  to  precede  a  fall.  lie 
inquired  gravely  of  Mrs.  Woffington, 
whether  he  had  or  had  not  shown  a 
spirit.  Whether  he  had  or  had  not 
fired  into  each  a  parting  shot,  as  they 
sheered  off.  To  repair  which,  it  might 
be  advisable  for  them  to  put  into 
friendly  ports. 

"  Tremendous  !  "  was    the    reply. 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


77 


"  And  when  Snarl  and  Soaper  sit 
on  your  next  play,  they  won't  for- 
get the  lesson  you  have  given  them." 

"  I  '11  be  sworn  they  won't  !  " 
chuckled  Triplet.  But,  reconsidering 
her  words,  lie  looked  blank,  and 
muttered  :  "  Then  perhaps  it  would 
have  been  more  prudent  to  let  them 
alone ! " 

"  Incalculably  more  prudent ! "  was 
the  reply. 

"  Then  why  did  you  set  me  on, 
madam  ?  "  said  Triplet,  reproachful- 

]7- 

"  Because  I  wanted  amusement, 
and  my  head  ached,"  was  the  cool  an- 
swer, somewhat  languidly  given. 

"  I  defy  the  coxcombs  !  "  cried 
Triplet,  with  reviving  spirit.  "But 
real  criticism  I  respect,  honor,  and 
bow  to.  Such  as  yours,  madam  ;  or 
such  as  that  sweet  lady's  at  Mr.  Vane's 
would  have  been  ;  or,  in  fact,  any- 
body's who  appreciates  me.  O  mad- 
am, I  wanted  to  ask  you,  was  it  not 
strange  your  not  being  at  Mr. Vane's, 
after  all,  to-day  1  " 

"  I  was  at  Mr.  Vane's,  Triplet." 

"  You  were  ?  Why,  I  came  with  my 
verses,  and  she  said  you  were  not 
there  !  I  will  go  fetch  the  verses." 

"  No,  no !  Who  said  I  was  not 
there  1 " 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  The  charm- 
ing young  lady  who  helped  me  with 
her  own  hand  to  everything  on  the 
table.  What  wine  that  gentleman 
possesses ! " 

"  Was  it  a  young  lady,  Triplet  ?  " 

"  Not  more  than  two-and-twenty, 
I  should  say." 

"  In  a  travelling-dress  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  see  her  dress,  madam, 
for  her  beauty,  —  brown  hair,  blue 
eyes,  charming  in  conversation  —  " 

"  Ah  !  What  did  she  tell  you  ?  " 

"  She  told  me,  madam —  Ahem  !  " 

"  Well,  what  did  you  tell  her?  And 
what  did  she  answer  ?  " 

"  I  told  her  that  I  came  with  verses 
for  you,  ordered  by  Mr.  Vane. 
That  he  admired  you.  I  descanted, 
madam,  on  your  virtues,  which  had 
made  him  your  slave.". 


"  Go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Woffington,  en- 
couraging him  with  a  deceitful  smile. 
"  Tell  me  all  you  told  her." 

"  That  you  were  sitting  to  me  for 
your  portrait,  the  destination  of  which 
was  not  doubtful.  That  I  lived  at  10, 
Hercules  Buildings." 

"  You  told  that  lady  all  this  1 " 

"  I  give  my  honor.  She  was  so 
kind,  I  opened  my  heart  to  her.  But 
tell  me  now,  madam,"  said  Triplet, 
joyously  dancing  round  the  Woffing- 
ton volcano,  "  do  you  know  this 
charming  lady  ?  " 

«Yes7' 

"  I  congratulate  you,  madam.  An 
acquaintance  worthy  even  of  you ;  and 
there  are  not  many  such.  Who  is  she, 
madam  ? "  continued  Triplet,  lively 
with  curiosity. 

"  Mrs.  Vane/'  was  the  quiet,  grim 
answer. 

"  Mrs.  Vane  ?  His  mother  ?  No  — 
am  I  mad?  His  sister!  O,  I  see, 
his  —  " 

"  His  wife  !  " 

"  His  wife  !  Why,  then  Mr.  Vane 's 
married  ?  " 

"  Yes-." 

"0,  look  there! — 0,  look  here  now! 
Well,  but,  good  Heavens  !  she  was  n't 
to  know  you  were  there,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  But  then  I  let  the  cat  out  of  the 
bag  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But,  good  gracious  !  there  will  be 
some  serious  mischief! " 

"No  doubt  of  it." 

"  And  it  is  all  my  fault  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  'vc  played  the  deuce  with  their 
married  happiness  ? " 

"  Probably." 

"  And  ten  to  one  if  you  are  not 
incensed  against  me  too  ?  " 

Mrs.  Woffington  replied  by  looking 
him  in  the  face,  and  turning  her  back 
upon  him.  She  walked  hastily  to  the 
window,  threw  it  open,  and  looked  out 
of  it,  leaving  poor  Triplet  to  very 
unpleasant  reflections.  She  was  so 
angry  with  him  she  dared  not  trust 
herself  to  speak. 


78 


PEG   WOFFINGTOX. 


"  Just  my  luck,"  thought  he.  "  I 
had  a  patron  and  a  benefactress ;  I 
have  betrayed  them  both."  Sudden- 
ly an  idea  struck  him.  "  Madam," 
said  he,  timorously,  "  see  what  these 
fine  gentlemen  are !  What  business 
had  he,  with  a  wife  at  home,  to  come 
and  fall  in  love  with  you  ?  I  do  it  for- 
ever in  my  plays  —  I  am  obliged  — 
they  would  be  so  dull  else  ;  but  in  real 
life  to  do  it  is  abominable." 

"  You  forget,  sir,"  replied  Mrs. 
Woffington,  without  moving,  "  that  I 
am  an  actress,  —  a  plaything  for  the 
impertinence  of  puppies  and  the 
treachery  of  hypocrites.  Fool !  to 
think  there  was  an  honest  man  in  the 
world,  and  that  he  had  shone  on  me ! " 

With  these  words  she  turned,  and 
Triplet  was  shocked  to  see  the  change 
in  her  face.  She  was  pale,  and  her 
black,  lowering  brows  were  gloomy 
and  terrible.  She  walked  like  a  ti- 
gress to  and  fro,  and  Triplet  dared 
not  speak  to  her  :  indeed  she  seemed 
but  half  conscious  of  his  presence.  He 
went  for  nobody  with  her.  How  lit- 
tle we  know  the  people  we  eat  and 
go  to  church  and  flirt  with  !  Triplet 
had  imagined  this  creature  an  incar- 
nation of  gayety,  a  sportive  being,  the 
daughter  of  smiles,  the  bride  of  mirth  ; 
needed  but  a  look  at  her  now  to  see 
that  her  heart  was  a  volcano,  her 
bosom  a  boiling  gulf  of  fiery  lava. 
She  walked  like  some  wild  creature  ; 
she  flung  her  hands  up  to  heaven  with 
a  passionate  despair,  before  which  the 
feeble  spirit  of  her  companion  shrank 
and  cowered ;  and,  with  quivering  lips 
and  blazing  eyes,  she  burst  into  a  tor- 
rent of  passionate  bitterness. 

"  But  who  is  Margaret  Woffington," 
she  cried,  "  that  she  should  pretend 
to  honest  love,  or  feel  insulted  by  the 

Eroflfer  of  a  stolen  regard  1  And  what 
avc  we  to  do  with  homes,  or  hearts,  or 
firesides?  Have  we  not  the  playhouse, 
its  paste  diamonds,  its  paste  feelings, 
and  the  loud  applause  of  fops  and 
sots  —  hearts  ?  —  beneath  loads  of 
tinsel  and  paint  ?  Nonsense !  The 
love  that  can  go  with  souls  to  heav- 
en, —  such  love  for  us  ?  Nonsense ! 


These  men  applaud  us,  cajole  us, 
swear  to  us,  flatter  us ;  and  yet,  for- 
sooth, we  would  have  them  respect  us 
too." 

"  My  dear  benefactress,"  said  Trip- 
let, "they  arc  not  worthy  of  you." 

"  I  thought  this  man  was  not  all 
dross ;  from  the  first  I  never  felt  his 
passion  an  insult.  O  Triplet !  I 
could  have  loved  this  man,  —  really 
loved  him  !  and  I  longed  so  to  be 
good.  O  God  !  O  God  !  " 

"  Thank  Heaven,  you  don't  love 
him !  "  cried  Triplet,  hastily.  "  Thank 
Heaven  for  that  !  " 

"  Love  him  ?  Love  a  man  who 
comes  to  me  with  a  silly  second-hand 
affection  from  his  insipid  baby-face, 
and  offers  me  half,  or  two  thirds,  or  a 
third  of  his  worthless  heart?  I 
hate  him !  —  and  her !  —  and  all  the 
world ! " 

"  That  is  what  I  call  a  very  proper 
feeling,"  said  poor  Triplet,  with  a 
weak  attempt  to  soothe  her.  "  Then 
break  with  him  at  once,  and  all  will 
be  well." 

"  Break  with  him  ?  Arc  you  mad  ? 
No  !  Since  he  plays  with  the  tools  of 
my  trade  I  shall  fool  him  worse  than 
he  has  me.  I  will  feed  his  passion 
full,  tempt  him,  torture  him,  play 
with  him,  as  the  angler  plays  a  fish 
upon  his  hook.  And,  when  his  very 
life  depends  on  me,  then  by  degrees 
he  shall  see  me  cool,  and  cool,  and 
freeze  into  bitter  aversion.  Then  he 
shall  rue  the  hour  he  fought  with  the 
Devil  against  my  soul,  and  played 
false  with  a  brain  and  heart  like 
mine  ! " 

"  But  his  poor  wife  ?  You  will 
have  pity  on  her  ?  " 

"  His  wife  !  Arc  wives'  hearts  the 
only  hearts  that  throb,  and  burn,  and 
break  ?  His  wife  must  defend  her- 
self. It  is  not  from  me  that  mercy 
can  come  to  her,  nor  from  her  to  me. 
I  loathe  her,  and  I  shall  not  forget 
that  you  took  her  part.  Only,  if  you 
arc  her  friend,  take  my  advice,  don't 
you  assist  her.  I  shall  defeat  her 
without  that.  Let  her  light  her  buttle, 
and  /  mine." 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


79 


"  Ah,  madam !  she  cannot  fight ; 
she  is  a  dove." 

"  You  are  a  fool !  What  do  you 
know  about  women  ?  You  were  with 
her  five  minutes,  and  she  turned  you 
inside  out.  My  life  on  it,  whilst  I 
have  been  fooling  my  time  here,  she 
is  in  the  field,  with  all  the  arts  of 
our  sex,  simplicity  at  the  head  of 
them." 

Triplet  was  making  a  futile  endeav- 
or to  convert  her  to  his  view  of  her 
rival,  when  a  knock  suddenly  came 
to  his  door.  A  slovenly  girl,  one  of 
his  own  neighbors,  brought  him  a  bit 
of  paper,  with  a  line  written  in  pen- 
cil. 

"  'T  is  from  a  lady,  who  waits  be- 
low," said  the  girl. 

Mrs.  Woffington  went  again  to  the 
window,  and  there  she  saw  getting 
out  of  a  coach,  and  attended  by  James 
Burdock,  Mabel  Vane,  who  had  sent 
up  her  name  on  the  back  of  an  old 
letter. 

"  What  shall  I  do  1 "  said  Triplet, 
as  soon  as  he  recovered  the  first 
stunning  effects  of  this  contretemps. 
To  his  astonishment,  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton  bade  the  girl  show  the  lady  up 
stairs.  The  girl  went  down  on  this 
errand. 

"  But  you  arc  here,"  remonstrated 
Triplet.  "  0,  to  be  sure,  you  can  go 
into  the  other  room.  There  is  plenty 
of  time  to  avoid  her,"  said  Triplet, 
in  a  very  natural  tremor.  "  This 
way,  madam ! " 

Mrs.  Woffington  stood  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room  like  a  statue. 

"  What  docs  she  come  here  for  ?  " 
said  she,  sternly.  "  You  have  not 
told  me  all." 

"  I  don't  know,"  cried  poor  Triplet, 
in  dismay ;  "  and  I  think  the  Devil 
brings  her  here  t»  confound  me.  For 
Heaven's  sake,  retire !  What  will  be- 
come of  us  all  ?  There  will  be  mur- 
der, I  know  there  will !  " 

To  his  horror,  Mrs.  Woffington 
would  not  move.  "  You  arc  on  her 
side,"  said  she,  slowly,  with  a  concen- 
tration of  spite  and  suspicion.  She 
looked  frightful  at  this  moment. 


"  All  the  better  for  me,"  added  she, 
with  a  world  of  female  malignity. 

Triplet  could  not  make  "  head 
against  this  blow;  he  gasped,  and 
pointed  piteously  to  the  inner  door. 
"  No ;  I  will  know  two  things  :  the 
course  she  means  to  take,  and  tha 
terms  you  two  are  upon." 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Vane's  light 
foot  was  heard  on  the  stair,  and  Trip- 
let sank  into  a  chair.  "  They  will 
tear  one  another  to  pieces,"  said 
he. 

A  tap  came  to  the  door. 

He  looked  fearfully  round  for  the 
woman  whom  jealousy  had  so  speedi- 
ly turned  from  an  angel  to  a  fiend  ; 
and  saw  with  dismay  that  she  had 
actually  had  the  hardihood  to  slip 
round  and  enter  the  picture  again. 
She  had  not  quite  arranged  herself 
when  her  rival  knocked. 

Triplet  dragged  himself  to  the  door. 
Before  he  opened  it,  he  looked  fear- 
fully over  his  shoulder,  and  received 
a  glance  of  cool,  bitter,  deadly  hostil- 
ity, that  boded  ill  both  for  him  and' 
his  visitor.  Triplet's  apprehensions 
were  not  unreasonable.  His  benefac- 
tress and  this  sweet  lady  were  rivals ! 

Jealousy  is  a  dreadful  passion,  it 
makes  us  tigers.  The  jealous  always 
thirst  for  blood.  At  any  moment 
when  reason  is  a  little  weaker  than 
usual,  they  are  ready  to  kill  the  thing 
they  hate,  or  the  thing  they  love. 

Any  open  collision. between  these 
ladies  would  scatter  ill  consequences 
all  round.  Under  such  circumstan- 
ces, we  are  pretty  sure  to  say  or  do 
something  wicked,  silly,  or  unreason- 
able. But  what  tortured  Triplet 
more  than  anything  was  his  own 
particular  notion  that  fate  doomed 
him  to  witness  a  formal  encounter 
between  these  two  women,  and  of 
course  an  encounter  of  such  a  nature 
as  we  in  our  day  illustrate  by  "  Kil- 
kenny cats." 

To  be  sure  Mrs.  Vane  had  appeared 
a  dove,  but  doves  can  peck  on  certain 
occasions,  and  no  doubt  she  had  a 
spirit  at  bottom.  Her  coming  to  him 
proved  it.  And  had  not  the  other 


80 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


been  a  dove  all  the  morning  and  after- 
noon ?  Yet  jealousy  had  turned  her 
to  a  fiend  before  his  eyes.  Then  if 
(which  was  not  probable)  no  collision 
took  place,  what  a  situation  was  his  ! 
Mrs.  Woffington,  (his  buckler  from 
starvation)  suspected  him,  and  would 
distort  every  word  that  came  from 
Mrs.  Vane's  lips. 

Triplet's  situation  was,  in  fact,  that 
of  -^Eneas  in  the  storm. 

"  Olim  et  haec  meminisse  juvabit  —  " 
"But,  while    present,   such    things   dont 
please  any  one  a  bit." 

It  was  the  sort  of  situation  we  can 
laugh  at,  and  see  the  fun  of  it  six 
months  after,  if  not  shipwrecked  on  it 
at  the  time. 


With 


ing 


"ith  a  ghastly  smile  the  poor  quak- 
hypocrite  welcomed  Mrs.  Vane, 
and  professed  a  world  of  innocent  de- 
light that  she  had  so  honored  his 
humble  roof. 

She  interrupted  his  compliments, 
and  begged  him  to  see  whether  she 
was  followed  by  a  gentleman  in  a 
cloak. 

Triplet  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"  Sir  Charles  Pomander !  "  gasped 
he. 

Sir  Charles  was  at  the  very  door. 
If,  however,  he  had  intended  to  mount 
the  stairs  he  changed  his  mind,  for  he 
suddenly  went  off  round  the  corner 
with  a  business-like  air,  real  or  ficti- 
tious. 

"He  is  gone,  madam,"  said  Trip- 
let. 

Mrs.  Vane,  the  better  to  escape  de- 
tection or  observation,  wore  a  thick 
mantle  and  a  hood,  that  concealed 
her  features.  Of  these  Triplet  debar- 
rassed  her. 

"  Sit  down,  madam  " ;  and  he  hastily 
drew  a  chair  so  that  her  back  was  to 
the  picture. 

She  was  pale,  and  trembled  a  little. 
She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  a  mo- 
ment, then,  recovering  her  courage, 
"  she  begged  Mr.  Triplet  to  pardon 
her  for  coming  to  him.  He  had  in- 
spired her  with  confidence,"  she  said ;  j 
"  he  had  offered  her  his  sen-ices,  and  j 


so  she  had  come  to  him,  for  she  had 
no  other  friend  to  aid  her  in  her  sore 
distress."  She  might  have  added, 
that  with  the  tact  of  her  sex  she  had 
read  Triplet  to  the  bottom,  and  came 
to  him,  as  she  would  to  a  benevolent, 
muscular  old  woman. 

Triplet's  natural  impulse  was  to 
repeat  most  warmly  his  offers  of  ser- 
vice. He  did  so ;  and  then,  conscious 
of  the  picture,  had  a  misgiving. 

"Dear  Mr.  Triplet,"  began  Mrs. 
Vane,  "  you  know  this  person,  Mrs. 
Woffington  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  Triplet, 
lowering  his  eyes,  "  I  am  honored  by 
her  acquaintance." 

"  You  will  take  me  to  the  theatre 
where  she  acts  1 " 

"  Yes,  madam  :  to  the  boxes,  I  pre- 
sume ?  " 

"  No  !  O  no  !  How  could  I  bear 
that  ?  To  the  place  where  the  actors 
and  actresses  are." 

Triplet  demurred.  This  would  be 
courting  that  very  collision,  the  dread 
of  which  even  now  oppressed  him. 

At  the  first  faint  sign  of  resistance 
she  began  to  supplicate  him,  as  if  he 
was  some  great,  stern  tyrant. 

"  O,  you  must  not,  you  cannot  re- 
fuse me.  Yon  do  not  know  what  I 
risk  to  obtain  this.  I  have  risen  from 
my  bed  to  come  to  you.  I  have  a  fire 
here !  "  She  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
brow.  "  0,  take  me  to  her!  " 

"  Madam,  I  will  do  anything  for 
yon.  But  be  advised ;  trust  to  my 
knowledge  of  human  nature.  What 
you  require  is  madness.  Gracious 
Heavens !  yon  two  are  rivals,  and 
when  rivals  meet  there's  murder  or 
deadly  mischief." 

"  Ah !  if  you  knew  my  sorrow,  you 
would  not  thwart  me.  0  Mr.  Trip- 
let !  little  did  I  think  you  were  as 
cruel  as  the  rest."  So  then  this  cruel 
monster  whimpered  out  that  he  should 
do  any  folly  she  insisted  upon. 
"  Good,  kind  Mr.  Triplet !  "  said  Mrs. 
Vane.  "  Let  me  look  in  your  face  ? 
Yes,  I  see  you  are  honest  and  true. 
I  will  tell  you  all."  Then  she  poured 
in  liis  ear  her  simple  tale,  unadorned 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


81 


and  touching  as  Jndah's  speech  to 
Joseph.  She  told  him  how  she  loved 
her  husband  ;  how  he  had  loved  her ; 
how  happy  they  were  for  the  first  six 
months ;  how  her  heart  sank  when 
he  left  her ;  how  he  had  promised  she 
should  join  him,  and  on  that  hope 
she  lived.  "  But  for  two  months  he 
had  ceased  to  speak  of  this,  and  I 
grew  heart-sick  waiting  for  the  sum- 
mons that  never  came.  At  last  I  felt 
1  should  die  if  I  did  not  see  him ;  so  I 
plucked  up  courage  and  wrote  that  I 
must  come  to  him.  He  did  not  forbid 
me,  so  I  left  our  country  home.  0 
sir !  I  cannot  make  you  know  how 
my  heart  burned  to  be  by  his  side.  I 
counted  the  hours  of  the  journey ;  I 
counted  the  miles.  At  last  I  reached 
his  house ;  I  found  a  gay  company 
there.  I  was  a  little  sorry,  but  I  said : 
'  His  friends  shall  be  welcome,  right 
welcome.  He  has  asked  them  to  wel- 
come his  wife.'  " 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  muttered  Triplet. 

"  O  Mr.  Triplet !  they  were  there 

to  do  honor  to ,  and  the  wife 

was  neither  expected  nor  desired. 
There  lay  my.  letters  with  their  seals 
unbroken.  I  know  all  his  letters  by 
heart,  Mr.  Triplet.  The  seals  un- 
broken —  unbroken  !  Mr.  Triplet." 

"  It  is  abominable  !  "  cried  Triplet, 
fiercely. 

"  And  she  who  sat  in  my  seat  —  in 
his  house,  and  in  his  heart  —  was  this 
lady,  the  actress  you  so  praised  to 
me?" 

"  That  lady,  ma'am,"  said  Trip- 
let, "has  been  deceived  as  well  as 
you." 

"  I  am  convinced  of  it,"  said  Ma- 
bel. 

"  And  it  is  my  painful  duty  to  tell 
you,  madam,  that,  with  all  her  talents 
and  sweetness,  she  has  a  fiery  temper ; 
yes,  a  very  fiery  temper,"  continued 
Triplet,  stoutly,  though  with  an  un- 
easy glance  in  a  certain  direction ; 
"  and  I  have  reason  to  believe  she  is 
angry,  and  thinks  more  of  her  own 
ill-usage  than  yours.  Don't  you  go 
near  her.  Trust  to  my  knowledge 
of  the  sex,  madam  ;  I  am  a  dramatic 
4* 


writer.  Did  you  ever  read  the '  Rival 
Queens '  ?  " 

".No." 

"  I  thought  not.  Well,  madam, 
one  stabs  the  other,  and  the  one  that 
is  stabbed  says  things  to  the  other 
that  are  more  biting  than  steel.  The 
prudent  course  for  you  is  to  keep 
apart,  and  be  always  cheerful,  and 
welcome  him  with  a  smile  —  and  — 
have  you  read  '  The  Way  to  keep 
him '  ? " 

"No,  Mr.  Triplet,"  said  Mabel, 
firmly,  "I  cannot  feign.  Were  I  to 
attempt  talent  and  deceit,  I  should 
be  weaker  than  I  am  now.  Honesty 
and  right  are  all  my  strength.  I  will 
cry  to  her  for  justice  and  mercy.  And 
if  I  cry  in  vain,  I  shall  die,  Mr.  Trip- 
let, that  is  all." 

"  Don't  cry,  dear  lady,"  said  Trip- 
let, in  a  broken  voice. 

"  It  is  impossible  !  "  cried  she,  sud- 
denly. "  I  am  not  learned,  but  I  can 
read  faces.  I  always  could,  and  so 
could  my  Aunt  Deborah  before  me. 
I  read  you  right,  Mr.  Triplet,  and  I 
have  read  her  too.  Did  not  my  heart 
warm  to  her  amongst  them  all  ? 
There  is  a  heart  at  the  bottom  of  all 
her  acting,  and  that  heart  is  good  and 
noble." 

"  She  is,  madam !  she  is  !  and 
charitable  too.  I  know  a  family  she 
saved  from  starvation  and  despair. 
O  yes  !  she  has  a  heart  —  to  feel  for 
the  poor  at  all  events." 

"  And  am  I  not  the  poorest  of  the 
poor  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Vane.  "  I  have 
no  father  nor  mother,  Mr.  Triplet ; 
my  husband  is  all  I  have  in  the  world, 
—  all  I  had,  I  mean." 

Triplet,  deeply  affected  himself, 
stole  a  look  at  Mrs.  Woffington. 
She  was  pale  ;  but  her  face  was  com- 
posed into  a  sort  of  dogged  obstinacy. 
He  was  disgusted  with  her.  "  Mad- 
am," said  he,  sternly,  "  there  is  a  wild 
beast  more  cruel  and  savage  than 
wolves  and  bears ;  it  is  called  '  a 
rival/  and  don't  you  get  in  its  way." 

At  this  moment,  in  spite  of  Trip- 
let's precaution,  Mrs.  Vane,  casting 
her  eye  accidentally  round,  caught 


82 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


sight  of  the  picture,   and  instantly 
started  up,  crying,  "  She  is  there  ! 
Triplet  was  thunder-struck.     "  What 
a  likeness  ! "  cried   she,   and   moved 
towards  the  supposed  picture. 

"  Don't  go  to  it !  cried  Triplet, 
aghast ;  "  the  color  is  wet." 

She  stopped  ;  but  her  eye  and  her 
very  soul  dwelt  upon  the  supposed 
picture;  and  Triplet  stood  quaking. 
"  How  like  !  It  seems  to  breathe. 
You  are  a  great  painter,  sir.  A  glass 
is  not  truer." 

Triplet,  hardly  knowing  what  he 
said,  muttered  something  about "  crit- 
ics and  lights  and  shades." 

"  Then  they  are  blind ! "  cried  Ma- 
bel, never  for  a  moment  removing  her 
eye  from  the  object.  "  Tell  me  not 
of  lights  and  shades.  The  pictures 
I  see  have  a  look  of  paint ;  but  yours 
looks  like  life.  O  that  she  were 
here,  as  this  wonderful  image  of  hers 
is.  I  would  speak  to  her.  I  am  not 
wise  or  learned ;  but  orators  never 
pleaded  as  I  would  plead  to  her  for 
my  Ernest's  heart."  Still  her  eye 
glanced  upon  the  picture  ;  and  I  sup- 
pose her  heart  realized  an  actual 
presence,  though  her  judgment  did 
not ;  for  by  some  irresistible  impulse 
she  sank  slowly  down  and  stretched 
her  clasped  hands  towards  it,  while 
sobs  and  words  seemed  to  break  direct 
from  her  bursting  heart.  "  O  yes ! 
you  are  beautiful,  you  are  gifted,  and 
the  eyes  of  thousands  wait  upon  your 
very  word  and  look.  What  wonder 
that  he,  ardent,  refined,  and  genial, 
should  lay  his  heart  at  your  feet  ? 
And  I  have  nothing  but  my  love  to 
make  him  love  me.  I  cannot  take 
him  from  .you.  O,  be  generous  to 
the  weak  !  O,  give  him  back  to  me  ! 
What  is  one  heart  more  to  you? 
You  are  so  rich,  and  I  am  so  poor, 
that  without  his  love  I  have  nothing, 
and  can  do  nothing  but  sit  me  down 
and  cry  till  my  heart  breaks.  Give 
him  back  to  me,  beautiful,  terrible 
woman  !  for,  with  all  your  gifts,  you 
cannot  love  him  as  his  poor  Mabel 
does ;  and  I  will  love  you  longer 
perhaps  than  men  can  love.  I  will 


kiss  your  feet,  and  Heaven  above  will 

bless  you ;  and  I  will  bless  you  and 

pray  for  you  to  my  dying  day.     Ah  ! 

it  is  alive  !   I  am  frightened !  I  am 

frightened  !  "     She  ran  to  Triplet  and 

seized  his  arm.     "  No  ! "   cried  she, 

quivering  close  to  him ;   "  I  'm  not 

I  frightened,   for  it  was  for  me  she  — 

I  O  Mrs.  Woffington !  "  and,  hiding  her 

j  face  on  Mr.  Triplet's  shoulder,  she 

blushed,  and  wept,  and  trembled. 

What  was  it  had  betrayed  Mrs. 
Womngton  ?  A  tear ! 

During  the  whole  of  this  interview 
("which  had  taken  a  turn  so  unlocked 
for  by  the  listener)she  might  have 
said  with  Beatrice,  "  What  fire  is  in 
mine  ears  ?  "  and  what  self-reproach 
and  chill  misgiving  in  her  heart  too. 
She  had  passed  through  a  hundred 
emotions,  as  the  young  innocent  wife 
told  her  sad  and  simple  story.  But, 
anxious  now  above  all  things  to  es- 
cape without  being  recognized,  —  for 
she  had  long  repented  having  listened 
at  all,  or  placed  herself  in  her  present 
position,  —  she  fiercely  mastered  her 
I  countenance;  but,  though  she  ruled 
I  her  features,  she  could,  not  rule  her 
heart.  And  when  the  young  wife, 
instead  of  inveighing  against  her, 
came  to  her  as  a  supplicant,  with 
faith  in  her  goodness,  and  sobbed  to 
her  for  pity,  a  big  tear  rolled  down 
her  cheek,  and  proved  her  something 
j  more  than  a  picture  or  an  actress. 

Mrs.  Vane,  as  we  have  related, 
screamed  and  ran  to  Triplet. 

Mrs.  WofBngton  came  instantly 
from  her  frame,  and  stood  before 
them  in  a  despairing  attitude,  with 
one  hand  upon  her  brow.  For  a  sin- 
gle moment  her  impulse  was  to  fly 
from  the  apartment,  so  ashamed  was 
she  of  having  listened,  and  of  meeting 
her  rival  in  this  way ;  but  she  con- 
quered this  feeling,  and,  as  soon  as 
she  saw  Mrs.  Vane  too  had  recovered 
some  composure,  she  said  to  Triplet, 
in  a  low  but  firm  voice  :  — 

"  Leave  us,  sir.     No  living  creature 
must  hear  what  I  say  to  this  lady !  " 
Triplet    remonstrated,     but     Mrs. 
Vane   said,   faintly  :  — 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


83 


"  O  yes,  good  Mr.  Triplet,  I  would 
rather  you  left  me." 

Triplet,  full  of  misgivings,  was 
obliged  to  retire. 

"  Be  composed,   ladies,"   said  he, 

Eiteouslv.  "  Neither  of  you  could 
elp  it'r;  and  so  he  entered  his  inner 
room,  where  he  sat  and  listened  ner- 
vously, for  he  could  not  shake  off  all 
apprehension  of  a  personal  encounter. 

In  the  room  he  had  left  there  was 
a  long,  uneasy  silence.  Both  ladies 
were  greatly  embarrassed.  It  was 
the  actress  who  spoke  first.  All 
trace  of  emotion,  except  a  certain  pal- 
lor, was  driven  from  her  face.  She 
spoke  with  very  marked  courtesy,  but 
in  tones  that  seemed  to  freeze  as  they 
dropped  one  by  one  from  her  mouth. 

"  I  trust,  madam,  you  will  do  me 
the  justice  to  believe  I  did  not  know 
Mr.  Vane  was  married  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it ! "  said  Mabel, 
warmly.  "  I  feel  you  are  as  good  as 
you  are  gifted." 

"  Mrs.  Vane,  I  am  not !  "  said  the 
other,  almost  sternly.  "  You  are  de- 
ceived ! " 

"  Then  Heaven  have  mercy  on  me ! 
No !  I  am  not  deceived,  you  pitied 
me.  You  speak  coldly  now;  but  I 
know  your  face  and  your  heart,  —  you 
pity  me ! " 

"  I  do  respect,  admire,  and  pity 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Woffington,  sadly ; 
"  and  I  could  consent  nevermore  to 
communicate  with  your  —  with  Mr. 
Vane." 

"  Ah,!  "  cried  Mabel ;  "  Heaven  will 
bless  you !  But  will  you  give  me 
back  his  heart  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  do  that  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Woffington,  uneasily;  she  had  not 
bargained  for  this. 

"  The  magnet  can  repel  as  well  as 
attract.  Can  you  not  break  your 
own  spell  ?  What  will  his  presence 
be  to  me,  if  his  heart  remain  be- 
hind ? " 

"  You  ask  much  of  me." 

"Alas!  I  do." 

"  But  I  could  do  even  this."  She 
paused  for  breath.  "  And  perhaps  if 
you,  who  have  not  only  touched  my 


heart,  but  won  my  respect,  were  to 
say  to  me,  '  Do  so/  I  should  do  it." 
Again  she  paused,  and  spoke  with 
difficulty ;  for  the  bitter  struggle  took 
away  her  breath.  "  Mr.  Vane  thinks 
better  of  me  than  I  deserve.  I  have 

—  only  —  to  make  him  believe  me  — 

—  worthless —  worse   than   I  am  — 
and  he  will  drop  me  like  an  adder  — 
and  love  you  better,  far  better  —  for 
having   known  —  admired  —  and  de- 
spised Margaret  Woffington." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Mabel,  "  I  shall  bless 
you  every  hour  of  my  life."  Her 
countenance  brightened  into  rapture 
at  the  picture,  and  Mrs.  Woffington's 
darkened  with  bitterness  as  she 
watched  her. 

But  Mabel  reflected.  "  Rob  you  of 
your  good  name  ?  "  said  this  pure 
creature.  "Ah,  Mabel  Vane!  you 
think  but  of  yourself." 

"  I  thank  you,  madam,"  said  Mrs. 
Woffington,  a  little  touched  by  this 
unexpected  trait;  "but  some  one 
must  suffer  here,  and  —  " 

Mabel  Vane  interrupted  her. 
"  This  would  be  cruel  and  base,"  said 
she,  firmly.  "  No  woman's  forehead 
shall  be  soiled  by  me.  O  madam ! 
beauty  is  admired,  talent  is  adored ; 
but  virtue  is  a  woman's  crown.  With 
it,  the  poor  are  rich ;  without  it,  the 
rich  are  poor.  It  walks  through  life 
upright,  and  never  hides  its  head  for 
high  or  low." 

Her  face  was  as  the  face  of  an  an- 
gel now  ;  and  the  actress,  conquered 
by  her  beauty  and  her  goodness,  act- 
ually bowed  her  head  and  gently 
kissed  the  hand  of  the  country  wife 
whom  she  had  quizzed  a  few  hours 
ago. 

Frailty  paid  this  homage  to  virtue ! 

Mabel  Vane  hardly  noticed  it ;  her 
eye  was  lifted  to  heaven,  and  her 
heart  was  gone  there  for  help  in  a  sore 
struggle. 

"  This  would  be  to  assassinate  you ; 
no  less.  And  so,  madam,"  she 
sighed,  "  with  God's  h,elp,  I  do  refuse 
your  offer  ;  choosing  rather,  if  needs 
be,  to  live  desolate,  but  innocent, — 
many  a  better  than  I  hath  lived  so,  — 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


ay !  if  God  wills  it,  to  die,  with  my  j 
hopes  and  my  heart  crushed,  but  my 
hands   unstained  ;  for  so  my  humble 
life  has  passed." 

How  beautiful,  great,  and  pure 
goodness  is  !  It  paints  heaven  on 
the  face  that  has  it ;  it  wakens  the 
sleeping  souls  that  meet  it. 

At  the  bottom  of  Margaret  Wof- 
fington's  heart  lay  a  soul,  unknown 
to  the  world,  scarce  known  to  herself, 
—  a  heavenly  harp,  on  which  ill  airs 
of  passion  had  been  played,  —  but 
still  it  was  there,  in  tune  with  all  that 
is  true,  pure,  really  great  and  good. 
And  now  the  flush  that  a  great  heart 
sends  to  the  brow,  to  herald  great  ac- 
tions, came  to  her  cheek  and  brow. 

"  Humble  ! "  she  cried.     "  Such  as 

?)n   are   the  diamonds  of  our  race, 
ou  angel  of  truth  and  goodness,  you 
have  conquered ! " 

"  O  yes  !  yes  !    Thank  God,  yes  ! " 

"  What  a  fiend  I  must  be  could  I 
injure  you  !  The  poor  heart  we  have 
both  overrated  shall  be  yours  again, 
and  yours  forever.  In  my  hands  it 
is  painted  glass ;  in  the  lustre  of  a  love 
like  yours  it  may  become  a  priceless 
jewel."  She  turned  her  head  away 
and  pondered  a  moment,  then  sud- 
denly offered  to  Mrs.  Vane  her  hand 
with  nobleness  and  majesty ;  "  Can  j 
you  trust  me  1  "  The  actress  too 
was  divinely  beautiful  now,  for  her 
good  angel  shone  through  her. 

"  I  could  trust  you  with  my  life  !  " 
•was  the  reply. 

"  Ah  !  if  1  might  call  you  friend, 
dear  lady,  what  would  I  not  do  — 
suffer  —  resign  —  to  be  worthy  that 
title !  " 

"  No,  not  friend  !  "  cried  the  warm, 
innocent  Mabel ;  "  sister  !  I  will  call 
you  sister.  I  have  no  sister." 

"  Sister  !  "  said  Mrs.  Woffington. 
"  O,  do  not  mock  me  !  Alas !  you  do 
not  know  what  you  say.  That  sa- 
cred name  to  me,  from  lips  so  pure 
as  yours ;  Mrs.  Vane,"  said  she, 
timidly,  "would  you  think  me  pre- 
sumptuous if  I  begged  you  to  —  to 
let  me  kiss  you  ?  " 

The  words  were  scarce  spoken  be- 


fore Mrs.  Vane's  arms  were  wreathed 
round  her  neck,  and  that  innocent 
cheek  laid  sweetly  to  hers. 

Mrs.  Woffington  strained  her  to 
her  bosom,  and  two  great  hearts, 
whose  grandeur  the  world,  worship- 
per of  charlatans,  never  discovered, 
had  found  each  other  out  and  beat 
against  each  other.  A  great  heart  is 
as  quick  to  find  another  out  as  the 
world  is  slow. 

Mrs.  Woffington  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  tears  and  clasped  Mabel  tight- 
er and  tighter,  in  a  half-despairing 
way.  Mabel  mistook  the  cause,  but 
she  kissed  her  tears  away. 

"  Dear  sister,"  said  she,  "  be  com- 
forted. I  love  you.  My  heart 
warmed  to  you  the  first  moment  I 
saw  you.  A  woman's  love  and  grati- 
tude are  something.  Ah !  you  will 
never  find  me  change.  This  is  for 
life,  look  you." 

"  God  grant  it ! "  cried  the  other 
poor  woman.  "  O,  it  is  not  that,  it  is 
not  that ;  it  is  because  I  am  so  little 
worthy  of  this.  It  is  a  sin  to  deceive 
you.  I  am  not  good  like  you.  You 
dp  not  know  me  !  " 

"  You  do  not  know  yourself  if  you 
say  so ! "  cried  Mabel ;  and  to  her 
hearer  the  words  seemed  to  come  from 
heaven.  "  I  read  faces,"  said  Mabel. 
"  I  read  yours  at  sight,  and  you  are 
what  I  set  you  down ;  and  nobody 
must  breathe  a  word  against  you,  not 
even  yourself.  Do  you  think  I  am 
blind  1  You  are  beautiful,  you  are 
good,  you  are  my  sister,  and. I  love 
you !  " 

"  Heaven  forgive  me  !  "  thought 
the  other.  "  How  can  I  resign  this 
angel's  good  opinion  ?  Surely  Heav- 
en sends  this  blessed  dew  to  my 
parched  heart ! "  And  now  she  burned 
to  make  good  her  promise,  and  earn 
this  virtuous  wife's  love.  She  folded 
her  once  more  in  her  arms,  and  then, 
taking  her  by  the  hand,  led  her  tenderly 
into  Triplet's  inner  room.  She  made 
her  lie  down  on  the  bed,  and  placed 
pillows  high  for  her  like  a  mother, 
and  leaned  over  her  as  she  lay,  and 
pressed  her  lips  gently  to  her  fore- 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


85 


head.  Her  fertile  brain  had  already 
digested  a  plan,  but  she  had  resolved 
that  this  pure  and  candid  soul  should 
take  no  lessons  of  deceit.  "  Lie 
there,"  said  she,  "  till  I  open  the  door, 
and  then  join  us.  Do  you  know 
what  I  am  going  to  do  ?  I  am  not 
going  to  restore  you  your  husband's 
heart,  but  to  show  you  it  never  really 
left  you.  You  read  faces ;  well,  I 
read  circumstances.  Matters  are  not 
as  you  thought,"  said  she,  with  all  a 
woman's  tact.  "  I  cannot  explain, 
but  you  will  see."  She  then  gave 
Mrs.  Triplet  peremptory  orders  not 
to  let  her  charge  rise  from  the  bed 
until  the  preconcerted  signal. 

Mrs.  Vane  was,  in  fact,  so  exhaust- 
ed by  all  she  had  gone  through,  that 
she  was  in  no  condition  to  resist. 
She  cast  a  look  of  childlike  confi- 
dence upon  her  rival,  and  then  closed 
her  eyes,  and  tried  not  to  tremble  all 
over  and  listen  like  a  frightened  hare. 


It  is  one  great  characteristic  of 
genius  to  do  great  things  with  little 
things.  Paxton  could  see  that  so 
small  a  matter  as  a  green-house  could 
be  dilated  into  a  crystal  palace,  and 
with  two  common  materials  —  glass 
and  iron  —  he  raised  the  palace  of  the 
genii ;  the  brightest  idea  and  the 
noblest  ornament  added  to  Europe  in 
this  century,  —  the  koh-i-noor  of  the 
west.  Livy's  definition  of  Archimedes 
goes  on  the  same  ground. 


Peg  Woffington  was  a  genius  in 
her  way.  On  entering  Triplet's  stu- 
dio her  eye  fell  upon  three  trifles,  — 
Mrs.  Vane's  hood  and  mantle,  the 
back  of  an  old  letter,  and  Mr.  Triplet. 
(It  will  be  seen  how  she  worked  these 
slight  materials. )  On  the  letter  was 
written,  in  pencil,  simply  these  two 
words, "  Mabel  Vane."  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton wrote  above  these  words  two  more, 
"  Alone  and  unprotected."  She  put 
this  into  Mr.  Triplet's  hand,  and  bade 
him  take  it  down  stairs  and  give  it 
Sir  Charles  Pomander,  whose  retreat, 


she  knew,  must  have  been  fictitious. 
"  You  will  find  him  round  the  corner," 
said  she,  "  or  in  some  shop  that  looks 
this  way."  Whilst  uttering  these 
words  she  had  put  on  Mrs.  Vane's 
hood  and  mantle. 

No  answer  was  returned,  and  no 
Triplet  went  out  of  the  door. 

She  turned,  and  there  he  was 
kneeling  on  both  knees  close  under 
her. 

"  Bid  me  jump  out  of  that  window, 
madam ;  bid  me  kill  those  two  gen- 
tlemen, and  I  will  not  rebel.  You  are 
a  great  lady,  a  talented  lady ;  you 
have  been  insulted,  an.d  no  doubt 
blood  will  flow.  It  ought,  —  it  is 
your  due  ;  but  that  innocent  lady,  do 
not  compromise  her  !  " 

"  0  Mr.  Triplet,  you  need  not  kneel 
to  me.  I  do  not  wish  to  force  you  to 
render  me  a  service.  I  have  no  right 
to  dictate  to  you." 

"  O  dear  !  "  cried  Triplet,  "  don't 
talk  in  that  way.  I  owe  you  my  life, 
but  I  think  of  your  own  peace  of 
mind,  for  you  are  not  one  to  be  hap- 
py if  you  injure  the  innocent !  "  He 
rose  suddenly,  and  cried  :  "  Madam, 
promise  me  not  to  stir  till  I  come 
back !  " 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  To  bring  the  husband  to  his  wife's 
feet,  and  so  save  one  angel  from  de- 
spair, and  another  angel  from  a  great 
crime." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  are  wiser 
than  I,"  said  she.  "  But,  if  you  are 
in  earnest,  you  had  better  be  quick, 
for  somehow  I  am  rather  changeable 
about  these  people." 

"  You  can't  help  that,  madam,  it  is 
your  sex  ;  you  are  an  angel.  May  I 
be  permitted  to  kiss  your  hand  ?  you 
are  all  goodness  and  gentleness  at 
bottom.  I  fly  to  Mr.  Vane,  and  we 
will  be  back  before  you  have  time  to 
repent,  and  give  the  Devil  the  upper 
hand  a<rain,  my  dear,  good,  sweet 
lady !  " 

Away  flew  Triplet,  all  unconscious 
that  he  was  not  Mrs.  Woffington's 
opponent,  but  puppet.  He  ran,  he 
tore,  animated  by  a  good  action,  and 


86 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


spurred  by  the  notion  that  he  was  in 
direct  competition  with  the  fiend  for 
the  possession  of  his  benefactress. 

He  had  no  sooner  turned  the  cor- 
ner, than  Mrs.  Woffington,  looking 
out  of  the  window,  observed  Sir 
Charles  Pomander  on  the  watch,  as 
she  had  expected.  She  remained  at 
the  window  with  Mrs.  Vane's  hood 
on,  until  Sir  Charles's  eye  in  its  wan- 
derings lighted  on  her,  and  then, 
dropping  Mrs.  Vane's  letter  from  the 
window,  she  hastily  withdrew. 

Sir  Charles  eagerly  picked  it  up. 
His  eye  brightened  when  he  read  the 
short  contents.  With  a  self-satisfied 
smile  he  mounted  the  stair.  He 
found  in  Triplet's  house  a  lady  who 
seemed  startled  at  her  late  hardihood. 
She  sat  with  her  back  to  the  door, 
her  hood  drawn  tightly  down,  and 
wore  an  air  of  trembling  conscious- 
ness. Sir  Charles  smiled  again.  He 
knew  the  sex,  at  least  he  said  so.  (It 
is  an  assertion  often  ventured  upon.) 
Accordingly  Sir  Charles  determined 
to  come  down  from  his  height,  and 
court  nature  and  innocence  in  their 
own  tones.  This  he  rightly  judged 
must  be  the  proper  course  to  take 
with  Mrs.  Vane.  He  fell  down  with 
mock  ardor  upon  one  knee. 

The  supposed  Mrs.  Vane  gave  a 
little  squeak. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Vane,"  cried  he,  "  be 
not  alarmed;  loveliness  neglected,  and 
simplicity  deceived,  insure  respect  as 
well  as  adoration.  Ah  ! "  (A  sigh. ) 

"  O,  get  up,  sir ;  do,  please.  Ah ! " 
(A  sigh.) 

"  You  sigh,  sweetest  of  human 
creatures.  Ah !  why  did  not  a  na- 
ture like  yours  fall  into  hands  that 
would  have  cherished  it  as  it  de- 
serves ?  Had  Heaven  bestowed  on 
me  this  hand,  which  I  take  —  " 

"  0,  please,  sir —  " 

"  With  the  profoundest  respect, 
would  I  have  abandoned  such  a  treas- 
ure for  an  actress  ?  —  a  Woffington ! 
as  artificial  and  hollow  a  jade  as  ever 
winked  at  a  side  box  !  " 

"  Is  she,  sir  ?  " 

"  Notorious,  madam.      Your  hus- 


band is  the  only  man  in  London  who 
does  not  see  through  her.  How  dif- 
ferent are  you  !  liven  I,  who  have 
no  taste  for  actresses,  found  myself 
revived,  refreshed,  ameliorated,  by 
that  engaging  picture  of  innocence 
and  virtue  you  drew  this  morning ; 
yourself  the  bright  and  central  figure. 
Ah,  dear  angel !  I  remember  all 
your  favorites,  and  envy  them  their 
place  in  your  recollections.  Your 
Barbary  mare  —  " 

"  Hen,  sir  !  " 

"  Of  course  I  meant  hen ;  and  Gray 
Gillian,  his  old  nurse  —  " 

"  No,  no,  no  !  she  is  the  mare,  sir. 
He!  he!  he!" 

"So  she  is.  AndDame' — Dame — " 

"  Best ! " 

"  Ah !  I  knew  it.  You  see  how  I 
remember  them  all.  And  all  carry 
me  back  to  those  innocent  days  which 
fleet  too  soon,  —  days  when  an  angel 
like  you  might  have  weaned  me  from 
the  wicked  pleasures  of  the  town,  to 
the  placid  delights  of  a  rural  exist- 
ence ! " 

"  Alas,  sir  !  " 

"  You  sigh.  It  is  not  yet  too  late. 
I  am  a  convert  to  you  ;  I  swear  it  on 
this  white  hand.  Ah  !  how  can  I 
relinquish  it,  pretty  fluttering  prison- 
er 1  " 

"  O  sir,  please  —  " 

"  Stay  awhile." 

"  No  !  please,  sir  —  " 

"  While  I  fetter  theewith  a  worthy 
manacle."  Sir  Charles  slipped  a 
diamond  ring  of  great  value  upon 
his  pretty  prisoner. 

"  La,  sir,  how  pretty ! "  cried  in- 
nocence. 

Sir  Charles  then  undertook  to  prove 
that  the  lustre  of  the  ring  was  faint, 
compared  with  that  of  the  present 
wearer's  eyes.  This  did  not  suit  in- 
nocence ;  she  hung  her  head  and 
fluttered,  and  showed  a  bashful  re- 
pugnance to  look  her  admirer  in  the 
face.  Sir  Charles  playfully  insist- 
ed, and  Mrs.  Woffington  was  begin- 
ning to  be  a  little  at  a  loss,  when  sud- 
denly voices  were  heard  upon  the 
stairs. 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


87 


"My  husband!"  cried  the  false 
Mrs.  Vane,  and  in  a  moment  she 
rose,  and  darted  into  Triplet's  inner 
apartment. 

Mr.  Vane  and  Mr.  Triplet  were 
talking  earnestly  as  they  came  up  the 
stair.  It  seems  the  wise  Triplet  had 
prepared  a  little  dramatic  scene  for 
his  own  refreshment,  as  well  as  for  the 
ultimate  benefit  of  all  parties.  He 
had  persuaded  Mr.  Vane  to  accom- 
pany him  by  warm,  mysterious  prom- 
ises of  a  -happy  denouement ;  and 
now,  having  conducted  that  gentle- 
man as  far  as  his  door,  he  was  heard 
to  say :  — 

"And  now,  sir,  you  shall  see  one 
who  waits  to  forget  grief,  suspicion, 
—  all,  in  your  arms.  Beheld ! "  and 
here  he  flung  the  door  open. 

"The  devil!" 

"  You  flatter  me !  "  said  Pomander, 
who  had  had  time  to  recover  his 
aplomb,  somewhat  shaken,  at  first,  by 
Mr.  Vane's  inopportune  arrival. 

Now  it  is  to  be  observed  that  Mr. 
Vane  had  not  long  ago  seen  his  wife 
Ipng  on  her  bed,  to  all  appearance 
incapable  of  motion.  • 

Mr.  Vane,  before  Triplet  could  re- 
cover his  surprise,  inquired  of  Po- 
mander why  he  had  sent  for  him. 
"  And  what,"  added  he,  "  is  the  grief, 
suspicion,  I  am,  according  to  Mr. 
Triplet,  to  forget  in  your  arms  ?  " 

Mr.  Vane  added  this  last  sentence 
in  rather  a  testy  manner. 

"Why,  the  fact  is — "began  Sir 
Charles,  without  the  remotest  idea  of 
what  the  fact  was  going  to  be. 

"  That  Sir  Charles  Pomander  —  " 
interrupted  Triplet. 

"  But  Mr.  Triplet  is  going  to  ex- 
plain," said  Sir  Charles,  keenly. 

"  Nay,  sir ;  be  yours  the  pleasing 
duty.  But,  now  I  think  of  it,"  re- 
sumed Triplet,  "  why  not  tell  the 
simple  truth  1  it  is  not  a  play !  She 
I  brought  you  here  to  see  was  not  Sir 
Charles  Pomander  ;  but — "  • 

"  I  forbid  you  to  complete  the 
name !  "  cried  Pomander. 

"  I  command  you  to  complete  the 
name ! "  cried  Vane. 


"  Gentlemen,  gentlemen !  how  can 
I  do  both  ?  "  remonstrated  Triplet. 

"  Enough,  sir  !  "  cried  Pomander. 
"  It  is  a  lady's  secret.  I  am  the 
guardian  of  that  lady's  honor." 

"  She  has  chosen  a  strange  guar- 
dian of  her  honor !  "  said  Vane,  bit- 
terly. 

"  Gentlemen  !  "  cried  poor  Trip- 
let, who  did  not  at  all  like  the  turn 
things  were  taking,  "  I  give  you  my 
word,  she  does  not  even  know  of  Sir 
Charles's  presence  here !  " 

"  Who  1 "  cried  Vane,  furiously. 
"  Man  alive  !  who  are  you  speaking 
off" 

"  Mrs.  Vane  ! " 

"  My  wife  !  "  cried  Vane,  trembling 
with  anger  and  jealousy.  "  She  here ! 
and  with  this  man  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  cried  Triplet.  "  With 
me,  with  me  !  Not  with  him,  of 
course." 

"  Boaster  !  "  cried  Vane,  contempt- 
uously. "  But  that  is  a  part  of  your 
profession  ! " 

Pomander,  irritated,  scornfully 
drew  from  his  pocket  the  ladies'  joint 
production,  which  had  fallen  at  his 
feet  from  Mrs.  Woflington's  hand. 
He  presented  this  to  Mr  Vane,  who 
took  it  very  uneasily;  a  mist  swam 
before  his  eyes  as  he  read  the  words  : 
"Alone  and  unprotected,  —  Mabel 
Vane."  He  had  no  sooner  read 
these  words,  than  he  found  he  loved 
his  wife ;  when  he  tampered  with  his 
treasure,  he  did  not  calculate  on 
another  seeking  it. 

This  was  Pomander's  hour  of 
triumph  !  He  proceeded  coolly  to  ex- 
plain to  Mr.  Vane,  that,  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington  having  deserted  him  for  Mr. 
Vane,  and  Mr.  Vane  his  wife  for 
Mrs.  Woffington,  the  bereaved  par- 
ties had,  according  to  custom,  agreed 
to  console  each  other. 

This  soothing  little  speech  was  in- 
terrupted by  Mr.  Vane's  sword  flash- 
ing suddenly  out  of  its  sheath ;  while 
that  gentleman,  white  with  rage  and 
jealousy,  bade  him  instantly  take  to 
his  guard,  or  be  run  through  the  body 
like  some  noxious  animal. 


88 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


Sir  Charles  drew  his  sword,  and, 
in  spite  of  Triplet's  weak  interfer- 
ence, half  a  dozen  passes  were  rapidly 
exchanged,  when  suddenly  the  door 
of  the  inner  room  opened,  and  a  la- 
dy in  a  hood  pronounced,  in  a  voice 
which  was  an  excellent  imitation  of 
Mrs.  Vane's,  the  word,  "  False  !  " 

The  combatants  lowered  their 
points. 

"  You  hear,  sir !  "  cried  Triplet. 

"  You  see,  sir !  "  said  Pomander. 

"  Mabel !  —  wife  ! "  cried  Mr.  Vane, 
in  agony.  "  O,  say  this  is  not  true  ! 
O,  say  that  letter  is  a  forgery  !  Say, 
at  least,  it  was  by  some  treachery 
you  were  lured  to  this  den  of  iniquity  ! 
O,  speak ! " 

The  lady  silently  beckoned  to  some 
person  inside. 

"  You  know  I  loved  you  !  —  you 
know  how  bitterly  I  repent  the  infat- 
uation that  brought  me  to  the  feet  of 
another !  " 

The  lady  replied  not,  though  Vane's 
soul  appeared  to  hang  upon  her  an- 
swer. But  she  threw  the  door  open 
and  there  appeared  another  lady,  the 
real  Mrs.  Vane !  Mrs.  Woffington 
then  threw  off  her  hood,  and,  to 'Sir 
Charles  Pomander's  consternation,  re- 
vealed the  features  of  that  ingenious 
person,  who  seemed  born  to  outwit 
him. 

"  You  heard  that  fervent  declara- 
tion, madam  ? "  said  she  to  Mrs. 
Vane.  "  I  present  to  you,  madam, 
a  gentleman  who  regrets  that  he  mis- 
took the  real  direction  of  his  feelings. 
And  to  you,  sir,"  continued  she,  with 
great  dignity,  "  I  present  a  lady  who 
will  never  mistake  either  her  feelings 
or  her  duty." 

"  Ernest !  dear  Ernest ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Vane,  blushing  as  if  she  was  the  cul- 
prit. And  she  came  forward  all  love 
and  tenderness. 

Her  truant  husband  kneeled  at  her 
feet  of  course.  No  !  he  said,  rather 
sternlv,  "  How  came  you  here,  Ma- 
bel 1 '' 

"  Mrs.  Vane,"  said  the  actress, 
"  fancied  you  had  mislaid  that  weath- 
ercock, your  heart,  in  Covent  Garden, 


and  that  an  actress  had  seen  in  it  a 
fit  companion  for  her  own,  and  had  fe- 
loniously appropriated  it.  She  came 
to  me  to  inquire  after  it." 

"  But  this  letter,  signed  by  you  ?  " 
said  Vane,  still  addressing  Mabel. 

"  Was  written  by  me  on  a  paper 
which  accidentally  contained  Mrs. 
Vane's  name.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Vane, 

—  I  can  hardly  look  you  in  the  face, 

—  I    had    a    little    wager    with    Sir 
Charles    here ;   his   diamond  ring  — 
which  you  may  see  has  .become  my 
diamond  ring  "  —  a  horrible  wry  face 
from  Sir  Charles  —  "  against  my  left 
glove,  that  I  could  bewitch  a  country 
gentleman's  imagination,   and  make 
him  think  me  an  angel.    Unfortunate- 
ly the  owner  of  his   heart  appeared, 
and,  like  poor   Mr.  Vane,  took  our 
play  for  earnest.     It  became  necessa- 
ry to  disabuse  her  and  to  open  your 
eyes.     Have  I  done  so  ?  " 

"  You  have,  madam,"  said  Vane, 
wincing  at  each  word  she  said.  But 
at  last,  by  a  mighty  effort,  he  mas- 
tered himself,  and,  coming  to  Mrs. 
Woffington  with  a  quivering  lip,  he 
held  out  his  hand  suddenly  in  a  very 
manly  way.  "  I  have  been  the  dupe 
of  my  own  vanity,"  said  he,  "  and  I 
thank  you  for  this  lesson."  Poor 
Mrs.  Woffington's  fortitude  had  well- 
nigh  left  her  at  this. 

"  Mabel,"  he  cried,  "  is  this  humili- 
ation any  punishment  for  my  folly  ? 
any  guaranty  for  my  repentance  ? 
Can  you  forgive  me  1  " 

"  It  is  all  forgiven,  Ernest.  But 
O,  you  are  mistaken."  She  glided  to 
Mrs.  Woffington.  "  What  do  we  not 
owe  you,  sister  ?  "  whispered  she. 

"  Nothing !  that  word  pays  all," 
was  the  reply.  She  then  slipped  her 
address  into  Mrs.  Vane's  hand,  and, 
courtesying  to  all  the  company,  she 
hastily  left  the  room. 

Sir  Charles  Pomander  followed; 
but  he  was  not  quick  enough  :  she 
got*  a  start,  and  purposely  avoided 
him,  and  for  three  days  neither  the 
public  nor  private  friends  saw  this 
poor  woman's  face. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vane  prepared  to  go 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


89 


also  ;  but  Mrs.  Vane  would  thank 
good  Mr.  Triplet  and  Mrs.  Triplet 
for  their  kindness  to  her. 

Triplet  the  benovolcnt'blushed,  was 
confused  and  delighted  ;  but  sudden- 
ly, turning  somewhat  sorrowful,  he 
said  :  "  Mr.  Vane,  madam,  made  use 
of  an  expression  which  caused  a  mo- 
mentary pang.  He  called  this  a  den 
of  iniquity.  Now  this  is  my  studio  ! 
But  never  mind." 

Mr.  Vane  asked  his  pardon  for  so 
absurd  an  error,  and  the  pair  left 
Triplet  in  all  the  enjoyment  which 
does  come  now  and  then  to  an  honest 
man,  whether  this  dirty  little  world 
will  or  not. 

A  coach  was  called  and  they  went 
home  to  Bloom  sbury.  Few  words 
were  said  ;  but  the  repentant  husband 
often  silently  pressed  this  angel  to 
his  bosom,  and  the  tears  which  found 
their  way  to  her  beautiful  eyelashes 
were  tears  of  joy. 

This  weakish,  and  consequently 
villanous,  though  not  ill-disposed  per- 
son would  have  gone  down  to  Wil- 
loughby  that  night ;  but  his  wife  had 
great  good  sense.  She  would  not 
take  her  husband  off,  like  a  school- 
boy caught  out  of  bounds.  She 
begged  him  to  stay  while  she  made 
certain  purchases ;  but,  for  all  that, 
her  heart  burned  to  be  at  home.  So 
in  less  than  a  week  after  the  events  we 
have  related  they  left  London. 

Meantime,  every  day  Mrs.  Vane 
paid  a  quiet  visit  to  Mrs.  Woffington 
(for  some  days  the  actress  admitted 
no  other  visitor),  and  was  with  her 
but  two  hours  before  she  left  London. 
On  that  occasion  she  found  her  very 
sad. 

"  I  shall  never  see  you  again  in  this 
world,"  said  she ;  "  but  I  beg  of  you  to 
write  to  me,  that  my  mind  may  be  in 
contact  with  yours. 

She  then  asked  Mabel,  in  her  half- 
sorrowful,  half-bitter  way,  how  many 
months  it  would  be  ere  she  was  for- 
gotten. 

Mabel  answered  by  quietly  crying. 
So  then  they  embraced;  and  Mabel 
assured  her  friend  she  was  not  one  of 


those  who  change  their  minds.  "  It 
is  for  life,  dear  sister ;  it  is  for  life," 
cried  she. 

"  Swear  this  to  me,"  said  the  other, 
almost  sternly.  "But  no,  I  have 
more  confidence  in  that  candid  face 
and  pure  nature  than  in  a  human  be- 
ing's oath.  If  you  are  happy,  remem- 
ber you  owe  me  something.  If  you 
are  unhappy,  come  to  me,  and  I  will 
love  you  as  men  cannot  love." 

Then  vows  passed  between  them, 
for  a  singular  tie  bound  these  two 
women ;  and  then  the  actress  showed 
a  part  at  least  of  her  sore  heart  to  her 
new  sister;  and  that  sister  was  sur- 
prised and  grieved,  and  pitied  her  tru- 
ly and  deeply,  and  they  wept  on  each 
other's  neck;  and  at  last  they  were 
fain  to  part.  They  parted ;  and  true 
it  was,  they  never  met  again  in  this 
world,  They  parted  in  sorrow  ;  but 
when' they  meet  again,  it  shall  be  with 

joy- 
Women  are  generally  such  faithless, 
unscrupulous,  and  pitiless  humbugs 
in  their  dealings  with  their  own  sex, 
—  which,  whatever  they  may  say, 
they  despise  at  heart,  —  that  I  am 
happy  to  be  able  to  say,  Mrs.  Vano 
proved  true  as  steel.  She  was  a 
noble-minded,  simple-minded  crea- 
ture ;  she  was  also  a  constant  crea- 
ture. Constancy  is  a  rare,  a  beautiful, 
a  godlike  virtue. 

Four  times  every  year  she  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  Mrs.  Woffington  ;  and 
twice  a  year,  in  the  cold  weather,  she 
sent  her  a  hamper  of  country  delica- 
cies, that  would  have  victualled  a 
small  garrison.  And  when  her  sister 
left  this  earthly  scene,  —  a  humble, 
pious,  long  -  repentant  Christian,  — 
Mrs.  Vane  wore  mourning  for  her,  and 
sorrowed  over  her ;  but  not  as  those 
who  cannot  hope  to  meet  again. 


My  story  as  a  work  of  art  —  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent  —  ends  with  that 
last  sentence.  If  a  reader  accompa- 
nies me  further,  I  shall  feel  flattered, 
and  he  does  so  at  his  own  risk. 

My  reader  knows  that  all  this  befell 


90 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


long  ago.  That  Woffington  is  gay, 
and  Triplet  sad,  no  more.  That  Ma- 
bel's, and  all  the  bright  eyes  of  that 
day,  have  long  been  dim,  and  all  its 
cunning  voices  hushed.  Judge  then 
whether  I  am  one  of  those  happy 
story-tellers  who  can  end  with  a  wed- 
dirfg.  No  !  this  story  must  wind  up, 
as  yours  and  mine  must  —  to-morrow 

—  or  to  -  morrow  —  or  to  -  morrow  ! 
when  our  little  sand  is  run. 

Sir  Charles  Pomander  lived  a  man 
of  pleasure  until  sixty.  He  then  be- 
came a  man  of  pain  ;  he  dragged  the 
chain  about  eight  years,  and  died 
miserably. 

Mr.  Gibber  not  so  much  died  as 
"  slipped  his  wind,"  —  a  nautical  ex- 
pression, that  conveys  the  idea  of  an 
easy  exit.  He  went  off  quiet  and 
genteel.  He  was  past  eighty,  and 
had  lived  fast.  His  servant  called 
him  at  seven  in  the  morning*  "  I 
will  shave  at  eight,"  said  Mr.  Gibber. 
John  brought  the  hot  water  at  eight ; 
but  his  master  had  taken  advantage 
of  this  interval  in  his  toilet  to  die  ! 

—  to  avoid  shaving  ? 

Snarl  and  Soaper  conducted  the 
criticism  of  their  day  with  credit  and 
respectability  until  a  good  old  age, 
and  died  placidly  a  natural  death,  like 
twaddle,  sweet  or  sour. 

The  Triplets,  while  their  patroness 
lived,  did  pretty  well.  She  got  a 
tragedy  of  his  accepted  at  her  theatre. 
She  made  him  send  her  a  copy,  and 
with  her  scissors  cut  out  about  half; 
sometimes  thinning,  sometimes  cut- 
ting bodily  away.  But,  lo !  the  in- 
herent vanity  of  Mr.  Triplet  came  out 
strong.  Submissively,  but  obstinately, 
he  fought  for  the  discarded  beauties. 
Unluckily,  he  did  this  one  day  that 
his  patroness  was  in  one  of  her  bitter 
humors.  So  she  instantly  gave  him 
back  his  manuscript,  with  a  sweet 
smile  owned  herself  inferior  in  judg- 
ment to  him,  and  left  him  unmolested. 

Triplet  breathed  freely  ;  a  weight 
was  taken  off  him.  The  savage  steel 
(he  applied  this  title  to  the  actress's 
scissors)  had  spared  \\\spurpureipanni. 
He  was  played,  pure  and  intact,  a 


j  calamity  the  rest  of  us  grumbling  es- 
cape. 

But  it  did  so  happen  that  the  audi- 
ence were  of  the  actress's  mind,  and 
found  the  words  too  exuberant,  and 
the  business  of  the  play  too  scanty  in 
proportion.  At  last  their  patience 
was  so  sorely  tried  that  they  supplied 
one  striking  incident  to  a  piece  defi- 
cient in  facts.  They  gave  the  manager 
the  usual  broad  hint,  and  in  the  mid- 
dle of  Triplet's  third  act  a  huge  veil 
of  green  baize  descended  upon  "  The 
Jealous  Spaniard." 

Failing  here,  Mrs.  Woffington  con- 
trived often  to  befriend  him  in  his 
other  arts,  and  moreover  she  often 
sent  Mr.  Triplet  what  she  called  a 
snug  investment,  a  loan  often  pounds, 
to  be  repaid  at  .Doomsday,  with  in- 
terest and  compound  interest,  accord- 
ing to  the  Scriptures ;  and,  although 
she  laughed,  she  secretly  believed  she 
was  to  get  her  ten  pounds  back, 
double  and  treble.  And  I  believe  so 
too. 

Some  years  later  Mrs.  Triplet  be- 
came eventful.  She  fell  ill,  and  lay  a 
dying ;  but  one  fine  morning,  after  all 
hope  had  been  given  up,  she  suddenly 
rose  and  dressed  herself.  She  was 
quite  well  in  body  now,  but  insane. 

She  continued  in  this  state  a  month, 
and  then  by  God's  mercy  she  recovered 
her  reason ;  but  now  the  disease  fell 
another  step,  and  lighted  upon  her 
temper,  —  a  more  athletic  vixen  was 
not  to  be  found.  She  had  spoiled 
Triplet  for  this  by  being  too  tame, 
so  when  the  dispensation  came  they 
sparred  daily.  They  were  now  thor- 
oughly unhappy.  They  were  poor 
as  ever,  and  their  benefactress  was 
dead,  and  they  had  learned  to  snap. 
A  speculative  tour  had  taken  this 
pair  to  Bristol,  then  the  second  city 
in  England.  They  sojourned  in  the 
suburbs. 

One  morning  the  postman  brought 
a  letter  for  Triplet,  who  was  showing 
his  landlord's  boy  how  to  plant  on- 
ions. (N.  B.  Triplet  had  never  plant-  • 
ed  an  onion,  but  he  was  one  of  your 
o  priori  gentlemen,  and  could  show 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


01 


anybody  how  to  do  anything. )  Trip- 
let held  out  his  hand  for  the  letter, 
but  the  postman  held  out  his  hand 
for  half  a  crown  first.  Trip's  profes- 
sion had  transpired,  and  his  clothes 
inspired  diffidence.  Triplet  appealed 
to  his  good  feeling. 

He  replied  with  exultation,  "  That 
he  had  none  left."  (A  middle-aged 
postman,  no  doubt.) 

Triplet  then  suddenly  started  from 
entreaty  to  King  Cambyses'  vein. 
In  vain ! 

Mrs.  Triplet  came  down,  and  es- 
sayed the  blandishments  of  the  softer 
sex.  In  vain  !  And,  as  there  were 
no  assets,  the  postman  marched  off 
down  the  road. 

Mrs.  Triplet  glided  after  him  like 
an  assassin,  beckoning  on  Triplet, 
who  followed,  doubtful  of  her  designs. 
Suddenly  (truth  compels  me  to  relate 
this)  she  seized  the  obdurate  official 
from  behind,  pinned  both  his  arms  to 
his  side,  and  with  her  nose  furiously 
telegraphed  her  husband. 

He,  animated  by  her  example, 
plunged  upon  the  man  and  tore  the 
letter  from  his  hand,  and  opened  it 
before  his  eyes. 

It  happened  to  be  a  very  windy 
morning,  and  when  he  opened  the 
letter  an  enclosure,  printed  on  much 
finer  paper,  was  caught  into  the  air. 
and  went  down  the  wind.  Triplet 
followed  in  kangaroo  leaps,  like  a 
dancer  making  a  Hying  exit. 

The  postman  cried  on  all  good  cit- 
izens for  help.  Some  collected  and 
laughed  at  him ;  Mrs.  Triplet  ex- 
plaining that  they  were  poor,  and 
could  not  pay  half  a  crown  for  the 
freight  of  half  an  ounce  of  paper. 
She  held  him  convulsively  until  Trip- 
let reappeared. 

That  gentleman  on  his  return  was 
ostentatiously  calm  and  dignified. 
"  You  are,  or  were,  in  perturbation 
about  half  a  crown,"  said  he. 
"  There,  sir,  is  a  twenty-pound  note, 
oblige  me  with  nineteen  pounds  seven- 
teen shillings  and  sixpence.  Should 
your  resources  be  unequal  to  such  a 
demand,  meet  me  at  the  '  Green 


Cat  and  Brown  Frogs,'  after  dinner, 
when  you  shall  receive  your  hr.!l- 
crown,  and  drink  another  upon  tho 
occasion  of  my  sudden  accession  to 
unbounded  affluence." 

The  postman  was  staggered  by  tho 
sentence,  and  overawed  by  the  note, 
and  chose  the  "  Cat  and  Frogs,"  and 
liquid  half-crown. 

Triplet  took  his  wife  down  the  road 
and  showed  her  the  letter  and  enclo- 
sure. The  letter  ran  thus :  — 

"SiR:  — 

"  We  beg  respectfully  to  inform 
you  that  our  late  friend  and  client, 
James  Triplet,  Merchant,  of  the  Mi- 
nories,  died  last  August,  without  a 
will,  and  that  you  are  his  heir. 

"  His  property  amounts  to  about 
twenty  thousand  pounds,  besides 
some  reversions.  Having  possessed 
the  confidence  of  your  late  uncle,  we 
should  feel  honored  and  gratified  if 
you  should  think  us  worthy  to  act 
professionally  for  yourself. 

"  We  enclose  twenty  pounds,  and 
beg  you  will  draw  upon  us  as  far  as 
five  thousand    pounds,    should    you 
have  immediate  occasion. 
"  We  are,  sir, 
"  Your  humble  servants, 
"JAMES  AND  JOHN  ALLMITT." 

It  was  some  time  before  these 
children  of  misfortune  could  realize 
this  enormous  stroke  of  compensa- 
tion ;  but  at  last  it  worked  its  way 
into  their  spirits,  and  they  began  to 
sing,  to  triumph,  and  dance  upon  the 
king's  highway. 

Mrs.  Triplet  was  the  first  to  pause, 
and  take  better  views.  "  O  James  !  " 
she  cried,  "  we  have  suffered  much  ! 
we  have  been  poor,  but  honest,  and 
the  Almighty  has  looked  upon  us  at 
last ! " 

Then  they  began  to  reproach  them- 
selves. 

"  0  James  !  I  have  been  a  peevish 
woman,  —  an  ill  wife  to  you,  this 
many  years ! " 

"  No,  no  ! "  cried  Triplet,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes.  "  It  is  I  who  have  been 
rough  and  brutal.  Poverty  tried  us 


92 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


too  hard;  but  we  were  not  like  the  rest 
of  them,  —  we  were  always  faithful  to 
the  altar.  And  the  Almighty  has 
seen  us,  though  we  often  doubted  it." 

"  I  never  doubted  that,  James." 

So  then  the  poor  things  fell  on 
their  knees  upon  the  public  road,  and  1 
thanked  God.  If  any  man  had  seen 
them,  he  would  have  said  they  were 
mad.  Yet  madder  things  are  done 
every  day  by  gentlemen  with  faces  as 
grave  as  the  parish  bull's.  And  then 
they  rose,  and  formed  their  little  plans.  . 

Triplet  was  for  devoting  four  fifths  ' 
to  charity,  and  living  like  a  prince  on 
the    remainder.      But    Mrs.    Triplet 
thought  the  poor  were  entitled  to  no 
more  than  two  thirds,  and  they  them-  j 
selves   ought  to  bask  in  a    third,  to 
make  up  for  what  they  had   gone  ! 
through ;    and    then     suddenly    she  j 
sighed,  and  burst  into  tears.     "  Lucy  !  i 
Lucy !  "  sobbed  she. 

Yes,   reader,  God  had  taken  little 
Lucy !     And    her    mother    cried    to  | 
think  all  this  wealth  and  comfort  had 
come  too  late  for  her  darling  child. 

"  Do  not  cry.  Lucy  is  richer,  a 
thousand  times,  than  you  are,  with 
your  twenty  thousand  pounds." 

Their  good  resolutions  were  car- 
ried out,  for  a  wonder.  Triplet 
lived  for  years,  the  benefactor  of  all 
the  loose  fish  thnt  swim  in  and  round 
theatres  ;  and,  indeed,  the  unfortu- 
nate seldom  appealed  to  him  in  vain. 
He  now  predominated  over  the  arts, 
instead  of  climbing  them.  In  his  < 
latter  day,  he  became  an  oracle,  as 
far  as  the  science  of  acting  was  con- 
cerned ;  and,  what  is  far  more  rare, 
he  really  got  to  know  something  about 
it.  This  was  owing  to  two  circum- 
stances :  first,  he  ceased  to  run  blind- 
fold in  a  groove  behind  the  scenes ; 
second,  he  became  a  frequenter  of  the 
first  row  of  the  pit,  and  that  is  where 
the  whole  critic,  and  two  thirds  of 
the  true  actor,  is  made. 

On  one  point,  to  his  dying  day, 
his  feelings  guided  his  judgment. 
He  never  could  see  an  actress  equal 
to  his  Woffington.  Mrs.  Abington 
was  grace  personified,  but  so  was  j 


Woffington,  said  the  old  man.  And 
Abington's  voice  is  thin,  Wortington's 
was  sweet  and  mellow.  When  Jor- 
dan rose,  with  her  voice  of  honey, 
her  dewy  freshness,  and  her  heavenly 
laugh,  that  melted  in  along  with  her 
words,  like  the  gold  in  the  quartz, 
Triplet  was  obliged  to  own  her  the 
goddess  of  beautiful  gaycty  ;  but  still 
he  had  the  last  word  :  "  \Voffington 
was  all  she  is,  except  her  figure. 
Woffington  was  a  Hebe;  your  Nell 
Jordan  is  little  better  than  a  dowdy.'' 
Triplet  almost  reached  the  present 
century.  He  passed  through  great 
events,  but  they  did  not  excite  him  ; 
his  eye  was  upon  the  arts.  When 
Napoleon  drew  his  conquering  sword 
on  England,  Triplet's  remark  was  : 
"  Now  we  shall  be  driven  upon  native 
talent,  thank  Heaven  !  "  The  storms 
of  Europe  shook  not  Triplet.  The 
fact  is,  nothing  that  happened  on  the 
great  stage  of  the  world  seemed  real 
to  him.  He  believed  in  nothing,  where 
there  was  no  curtain  visible.  But 
even  the  grotesque  are  not  good  in 
vain.  Many  an  eye  was  wet  round 
his  dying  bed,  and  many  a  tear  fell 
upon  his  grave.  He  made  his  final 
exit  in  the  year  of  grace  1 799.  And 
I,  who  laugh  at  him,  would  leave  this 
world  to-day  to  be  with  him ;  for  I 
am  tossing  at  sea,  —  he  is  in  port. 


A  straightforward  character  like 
Mabel's  becomes  a  firm  character  with 
years.  Long  ere  she  was  forty,  her 
hand  gently  but  steadily  ruled  Wil- 
longhby  House,  and  all  in  it.  She 
and  Mr.  Vane  lived  very  happily  ;  he 
gave  her  no  fresh  cause  for  uneasi- 
ness. Six  months  after  their  return, 
she  told  him  what  burned  in  that 
honest  heart  of  hers,  the  truth  about 
Mrs.  Woffington.  The  water  rushed  to 
his  eyes,  but  his  heart  was  now  whol- 
ly his  wife's ;  and  gratitude  to  Mrs. 
Woffington  for  her  noble  conduct 
was  the  only  sentiment  awakened. 

"  You  must  repay  her,  clearest," 
said  he.  "  I  know  you  love  her,  and 
until  to-day  it  gave  me  pain ;  now  it 


PEG  WOFFINGTON 


gives  me  pleasure.  We  owe  her 
much." 

The  happy,  innocent  life  of  Mabel 
Vane  is  soon  summed  up.  Prank  as 
the  day,  constant  as  the  sun,  pure  as 
the  dew,  she  passed  the  golden  years 
preparing  herself  and  others  for  a 
still  brighter  eternity.  At  home,  it 
was  she  who  warmed  and  cheered  the 
house,  and  the  hearth,  more  than  all 
the  Christmas  fires.  Abroad,  she 
shone  upon  the  poor  like  the  sun. 
She  led  her  beloved  husband  by  the 
hand  to  Heaven.  She  led  her  chil- 
dren the  same  road ;  and  she  was 
leading  her  grandchildren  when  the 
angel  of  death  came  for  her ;  and  she 
slept  in  peace. 

Many  remember  her.  For  she 
alone,  of  all  our  tale,  lived  in  this 
present  century ;  but  they  speak  of 
her  as  "  old  Madam  Vane,"  —  her 
whom  we  knew  so  young  and  fresh. 

She  lies  in  Willoughby  Church,  — 
her  mortal  part;  her  spirit  is  with 
the  spirits  of  our  mothers  and  sisters, 
reader,  that  are  gone  before  us ;  with 
the  tender  mothers,  the  chaste  wives, 
the  loyal  friends,  and  the  just  women 
of  all  ages. 

RESUKGET. 

I  come  to  her  last,  who  went  first ; 
but  I  could  not  have  stayed  by  the 
others,  when  once  I  had  laid  my 
darling  asleep.  It  seemed  for  a  while 
as  if  the  events  of  our  tale  did  her 
harm  ;  but  it  was  not  so  in  the  end. 

Not  many  years  afterwards,  she 
was  engaged  by  Mr.  Sheridan,  at  a 
very  heavy  salary,  and  went  to  Dub- 
lin. Here  the  little  girl,  who  had 
often  carried  a  pitcher  on  her  head 
down  to  the  Littey,  and  had  played 
Polly  Peachum  in  a  booth,  became  a 
lion  ;  dramatic,  political,  and  literary, 
and  the  centre  of  the  wit  of  that  wit- 
tiest of  cities. 

But  the  Dublin  ladies  and  she  did 
not  coalesce.  They  said  she  was  a 
naughty  woman,  and  not  fit  for  them 
morally.  She  said  they  had  but  two 
topics,  "  silks  and  scandal,"  and  were 
unfit  for  her  intellectually. 


This  was  the  saddest  part  of  her 
history.  But  it  is  darkest  just  before 
sunrise.  She  returned  to  London. 
Not  long  after,  it  so  happened  that 
she  went  to  a  small  church  in  the 
city  one  Sunday  afternoon.  The 
preacher  Avas  such  as  we  have  often 
heard ;  but  not  so  this  poor  woman, 
in  her  day  of  sapless  theology,  ere 
John  Wesley  waked  the  snoring 
church.  Instead  of  sending  a  dry 
clatter  of  morality  about  their  ears, 
or  evaporating  the  Bible  in  the  thin 
generalities  of  the  pulpit,  this  man 
drove  God's  truths  home  to  the  hearts 
of  men  and  women.  In  his  hands 
the  divine  virtues  were  thunderbolts, 
not  swans'  down.  With  good  sense, 
plain  speaking,  and  a  heart  yearning 
for  the  souls  of  his  brethren  and  his 
sisters,  he  stormed  the  bosoms  of 
many ;  and  this  afternoon,  as  he  rea- 
soned like  Paul  of  righteousness, 
temperance,  and  judgment  to  come, 
sinners  trembled,  —  and  Margaret 
Woffington  was  of  those  who  trem- 
bled. 

After  this  day,  she  came .  ever  to 
the  narrow  street  where  shone  this 
house  of  God ;  and  still  new  light 
burst  upon  her  heart  and  conscience. 
Here  she  learned  why  she  was  un- 
happy ;  here  she  learned  how  alone 
she  could  be  happy ;  here  she  learned 
to  know  herself ;  and,  the  moment  she 
knew  herself,  she  abhorred  herself,  and 
repented  in  dust  and  ashes. 

This  strong  and  straightforward 
character  made  no  attempt  to  recon- 
cile two  things  that  an  average  Chris- 
tian would  have  continued  to  recon- 
cile. Her  interest  fell  in  a  moment 
before  her  new  sense  of  right.  She 
flung  her  profession  from  her  like  a 
poisonous  weed. 

Long  before  this,  Mrs.  Vane  had 
begged  her  to  leave  the  stage.  She 
had  replied,  that  it  was  to  her  what 
wine  is  to  weak  stomachs.  "  But," 
added  she,  "  do  not  fear  that  I  will 
ever  crawl  down  hill,  and  unravel  my 
own  reputation ;  nor  will  I  ever  do 
as  I  have  seen  others,  —  stand  groan- 
ing at  the  wing,  to  go  on  giggling, 


PEG  WOFFIXGTON. 


and  come  off  gasping.  No !  the  first 
night  the  boards  do  not  spring  be- 
neath my  feet,  and  the  pulse  of  the 
public  beat  under  my  hand,  .1  am 
gone !  Next  day,  at  rehearsal,  instead 
of  Woffington,  a  note  will  come,  to 
tell  the  manager  that  henceforth  Wof- 
fington is  herself,  —  at  Twickenham, 
or  Richmond,  or  Harrow-on-the-Hill, 
far  from  his  dust,  his  din,  and  his 
glare,  —  quiet,  till  God  takes  her  : 
amidst  grass,  and  floweus,  and  chari- 
table deeds." 

This  day  had  not  come :  it  was  in 
the  zenith  of  her  charms  and  her  fame 
that  she  went  home  one  night  after  a 
play,  and  never  entered  a  theatre,  by 
front  door  or  back  door,  again.  She 
declined  all  leave-taking  and  cere- 
mony. 

"  When  a  publican  shuts  up  shop 
and  ceases  to  diffuse  liquid  poison, 
he  does  not  invite  the  world  to  put 
up  the  shutters  ;  neither  will  I.  Act- 
ors overrate  themselves  ridiculously," 
added  she ;  "  I  am  not  of  that  impor- 
tance to  the  world,  nor  the  world  to 
me.  I  fling  away  a  dirty  old  glove 
instead  of  soiling  my  fingers  filling  it 
with  more  guineas,  and  the  world 
loses  in  me,  what  1  another  old  glove, 
full  of  words ;  half  of  them  idle,  the 
rest  wicked,  untrue,  silly,  or  impure. 
Sougissons,  taisons-nous,  et  partons." 

She  now  changed  her  residence, 
and  withdrew  politely  from  her  old 
associates,  courting  two  classes  only, 
the  good  and  the  poor.  She  had 
always  supported  her  mother  and  sis- 
ter ;  but  now  charity  became  her  sys- 
tem. The  following  is  characteris- 
tic:— 

A  gentleman  who  had  greatly  ad- 
mired this  dashing  actress  met  one 
day,  in  the  suburbs,  a  lady  in  an  oM 
black  silk  gown  and  a  gray  shawl, 
with  a  large  basket  on  her  arm.  She 
showed  him  its  contents,  —  worsted 
stockings  of  prodigious  thickness, — 
which  she  was  carrying  to  some  of 
her  prot€g€s. 

"  But  surely  that  is  a  waste  of  your 
valuable  time,"  remonstrated  her  ad- 
mirer. "  Much  better  buy  them." 


"But,  my  good  soul,"  replied  the 
representative  of  Sir  Harry  Wildair, 
"  you  can't  buy  them.  Nobody  in 
this  wretched  town  can  knit  worsted 
hose  except  Woffington." 

Conversions  like  this  are  open  to 
just  suspicion,  and  some  did  not  fail 
to  confound  her  with  certain  great 
sinners,  who  have  turned  austere  self- 
deceivers  when  sin  smiled  no  more. 
But  this  was  mere  conjecture.  The 
facts  were  clear,  and  speaking  to  the 
contrary.  This  woman  left  folly  at 
its  brightest,  and, did  not  become  aus- 
tere :  on  the  contrary,  though  she 
laughed  less,  she  was  observed  to 
smile  far  oftener  than  before.  She 
was  a  humble  and  penitent,  but  cheer- 
ful, hopeful  Christian. 

Another  class  of  detractors  took  a 
somewhat  opposite  ground :  they  ac- 
cused her  of  bigotry  for  advising  a 
young  female  friend  against  the  stage 
as  a  business.  But  let  us  hear  herself. 
This  is  what  she  said  to  the  girl :  — 

"  At  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  I  al- 
ways loved  and  honored  virtue.  Yet 
the  tendencies  of  the  stage  so  com- 
pletely overcame  my  good  sentiments, 
that  I  was  for  years  a  worthless  wo- 
man. It  is  a  situation  of  uncommon 
and  incessant  temptation.  Ask  your- 
self, my  child,  whether  there  is  noth- 
ing else  you  can  do,  but  this.  It  is,  I 
think,  our  duty  and  our  wisdom  to  fly 
temptation  whenever  we  can,  as  it  is 
to  resist  it  when  we  cannot  escape  it." 

Was  this  the  tone  of  bigotry  ? 

Easy  in  fortune,  penitent,  but 
cheerful,  Mrs.  Woflington  had  now 
but  one  care,  —  to  efface  the  memory 
of  her  former  self,  and  to  give  as  many 
years  to  purity  and  piety  as  had  gone 
to  folly  and  frailty.  This  was  not  to 
be!  the  Almighty  did  not  permit, 
or  perhaps  I  should  say,  did  not  re- 
quire this. 

Some  unpleasant  symptoms  had 
long  attracted  her  notice,  but  in  the 
bustle  of  her  profession  had  received 
little  attention.  She  was  now  per- 
suaded by  her  own  medical  attendant 
to  consult  Dr.  Bowdler,  who  had  a 
great  reputation,  and  had  been  years 


PEG  WOFFINGTON. 


95 


ago  an  acquaintance  and  an  admirer. 
He  visited  her,  he  examined  her  by 
means  little  used  in  that  day,  and  he 
saw  at  once  that  her  days  were  num- 
bered. 

Dr.  Bowdler's  profession  and  ex- 
perience had  not  steeled  his  heart  as 
they  generally  do  and  must  do.  He 
could  not  tell  her  this  sad  news,  so  he 
asked  her  for  pen  and  paper,  a'nd  said, 
I  will  write  a  prescription  to  Mr. 
.  He  then  wrote,  not  a  prescrip- 
tion, but  a  few  lines,  begging  Mr. 

to  convey  the  cruel  intelligence 

by  degrees,  and  with  care  and  tender- 
ness. "  It  is  all  we  can  do  for  her," 
said  he. 

He  looked  so  grave  while  writing 
the  supposed  prescription,  that  it  un- 
luckily occurred  to  Mrs.  Woffington 
to  look  over  him.  She  stole  archly 
behind  him,  and,  with  a  smile  on  her 
face,  —  read  her  death-warrant. 

It  was  a  cruel  stroke  !  A  gasping 
sigh  broke  from  her.  At  this  Dr. 
Bowdlcr  looked  up,  and  to  his  horror 
saw  the  sweet  face  he  had  doomed  to 
the  tomb  looking  earnestly  and  anx- 
iously at  him,  and  very  pale  and  grave. 
He  was  shocked,  and,  strange  to  say, 
she,  whose  death-warrant  he  had 
signed,  ran  and  brought  him  a  glass 
of  wine,  for  he  was  quite  overcome. 
Then  she  gave  him  her  hand  in  her 
own  sweet  way,  and  bade  him  not 
grieve  for  her,  for  she  was  not  afraid 
to  die,  and  had  long  learned  that  "  life 
is  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor,  poor  play- 
er, who  frets  and  struts  his  hour  upon 
the  stage,  and  then  is  heard  no  more." 

But  no  sooner  was  the  doctor  gone, 
than  she  wept  bitterly.  Poor  soul ! 
she  had  set  her  heart  upon  living  as 
many  years  to  God  as  she  had  to  the 
world,  and  she  had  hoped  to  wipe  out 
her  former  self. 

"  Alas  !  "  she  said  to  her  sister,  "  I 
have  done  more  harm  than  I  can  ever 
hope  to  do  good  now ;  and  my  long 
life  of  folly  and  wickedness  will  be  re- 
membered, —  will  be  what  they  call 
famous ;  my  short  life  of  repentance 
who  will  know,  or  heed,  or  take  to 
profit  ?  " 


But  she  soon  ceased  to  repine.  She 
bowed  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  set 
her  house  in  order,  and  awaited  her 
summons.  The  tranquillity  of  her 
life  and  her  courageous  spirit  were 
unfavorable  to  the  progress  of  dis- 
ease, and  I  am  glad  to  say  she  was 
permitted  to  live  nearly  three  years 
after  this,  and  these  three  years  were 
the  happiest  period  of  her  whole  life. 
Works  of  piety  and  love  made  the 
days  eventful.  She  was  at  home 
now,  —  she  had  never  been  at  home 
in  folly  and  loose  living.  All  her  bit- 
terness was  gone  now,  with  its  cause. 

Reader,  it  was  with  her  as  it  is  with 
many  an  autumn  day  :  clouds  darken 
the  sun,  rain  and  wind  sweep  over 
all,  —  till  day  declines.  But  then 
comes  one  heavenly  hour,  when  all  ill 
things  seem  spent.  There  is  no  more 
wind,  no  more  rain.  The  great  sun 
comes  forth,  —  not  fiery  bright  indeed, 
but  full  of  tranquil  glory,  and  warms 
the  sky  with  ruby  waves,  and  the 
hearts  of  men  with  hope,  as,  parting 
with  us  for  a  little  space,  he  glides 
slowly  and  peacefully  to  rest. 

So  fared  it  with  this  humble,  peni- 
tent, and  now  happy  Christian. 

A  part  of  her  desire  was  given  her. 
She  lived  long  enough  to  read  a  firm 
recantation  of  her  former  self,  to  show 
the  world  a  great  repentance,  and  to 
leave  upon  indelible  record  one  more 
proof,  what  alone  is  true  wisdom,  and 
where  alone  true  joys  arc  to  be  found. 

She  endured  some  physical  pain,  as 
all  must  who  die  in  their  prime.  But 
this  never  wrung  a  sigh  from  her  great 
heart ;  and  within  she  had  the  peace  of 
God,  which  passes  all  understanding. 

I  am  not  strong  enough  to  follow 
her  to  her  last  hour ;  nor  is  it  needed. 
Enough  that  her  own  words  came 
true.  When  the  great  summons  came, . 
it  found  her  full  of  hope,  and  peace, 
and  joy ;  sojourning,  not  dwelling, 
upon  earth  ;  far  from  dust  and  din 
and  vice ;  the  Bible  in  her  hand,  the 
Cross  in  her  heart ;  quiet ;  amidst 
grass,  and  flowers,  and  charitable 
deeds. 

"  NON   OMNEM    MORITURAM." 


CHRISTIE    JOHNSTONE. 


A     NOVEL. 


I    DEDICATE 

ALL  THAT   IB  GOOD  IN  THIS  WOBK 
TO 

MY   MOTHER 

C.  R 


CHEISTIE   JOHNSTONE. 


CHAPTER  L 

VISCOUNT  IPSDEN,  aged  twenty- 
five,  income  eighteen  thousand  pounds 
per  year,  constitution  equine,  was  un- 
happy !  This  might  surprise  some 
people ;  but  there  are  certain  blessings, 
the  non-possession  of  which  makes 
more  people  discontented  than  their 
possession  renders  happy. 

Foremost  among  these  are  "  Wealth 
and  Rank  "  :  were  I  to  add  "  Beauty  " 
to  the  list,  such  men  and  women  as 
go  by  fact,  not  by  conjecture,  would 
hardly  contradict  me. 

The  fortunate  man  is  he  who,  born 
poor,  or  nobody,  works  gradually  up 
to  wealth  and  consideration,  and,  hav- 
ing got  them,  dies  before  he  finds  they 
were  not  worth  so  much  trouble. 

Lord  Ipsden  started  with  nothing 
to  win ;  and  naturally  lived  for  amuse- 
ment. Now  nothing  is  so  sure  to 
cease  to  please  as  pleasure,  —  to 
amuse,  as  amusement :  unfortunately 
for  himself  he  could  not  at  this  period 
of  his  life  warm  to  politics ;  so,  hav- 
ing exhausted  his  London  clique,  he 
rolled  through  the  cities  of  Europe 
in  his  carriage,  and  cruised  its  shores 
in  his  yacht.  But  he  was  not  hap- 
py! 

He  was  a  man  of  taste,  and  sipped 
the  arts  and  other  knowledge,  as  he 
sauntered  Europe  round. 

But  he  was  not  happy. 

"  What  shall  I  do  1  "  said  I'en- 
nuy€. 

"  Distinguish  yourself,"  said  one. 

"  How  1  " 

No  immediate  answer. 


"  Take  a  prima  donna  over,"  said 
another. 

Well,  the  man  took  a  prima  donna 
over,  which  scolded  its  maid  from  the 
Alps  to  Dover  in  the  Lingua  Toscana 
without  the  bocca  Romana,  and  sang 
in  London  without  applause  ;  because 
what  goes  down  at  La  Scala  does 
not  generally  go  down  at  II  Teatro 
della  Regina,  Haymarket. 

So  then  my  Lord  strolled  into 
Russia ;  there  he  drove  a  pair  of 
horses,  one  of  whom  put  his  hqad 
down  and  did  the  work ;  the  other 
pranced  and  capricoled  alongside,  all 
unconscious  of  the  trace.  He  seemed 
happier  than  his  working  brother ; 
but  the  biped  whose  career  corre- 
sponded with  this  playful  animal's 
was  not  happy ! 

At  length  an  event  occurred  that 
promised  to  play  an  adagio  upon 
Lord  Ipsden's  mind.  He  fell  in  love 
with  Lady  Barbara  Sinclair ;  and  he 
had  no  sooner  done  this  than  he  felt, 
as  we  are  all  apt  to  do  on  similar 
occasions,  how  wise  a  thing  he  had 
done  ! 

Besides  a  lovely  person,  Lady  Bar- 
bara Sinclair  had  a  character  that  he 
saw  would  make  him  ;  and,  in  fact, 
Lady  Barbara  Sinclair  was,  to  an  in- 
experienced eye,  the  exact  opposite 
of  Lord  Ipsden. 

Her  mental  pulse  was  as  plethoric 
as  his  was  languid. 

She  was  as  enthusiastic  as  he  was 
cool. 

She  took  a  warm  interest  in  every- 
thing. 

She  believed  that  government  is  a 


102 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


science,  and  one  that  goes  with  copia 
verborum. 

She  believed  that,  in  England, 
government  is  administered,  not  by 
a  set  of  men  whose  salaries  range 
from  eighty  to  five  hundred  pounds  a 
year,  and  whose  names  are  never 
heard,  but  by  the  First  Lord  of  the 
Treasury,  and  other  great  men. 

Hence  she  inferred,  that  it  matters 
very  much  to  all  of  us  in  whose  hand 
is  the  rudder  of  that  state  vessel  which 
goes  down  the  wind  of  public  opin- 
ion, without  veering  a  point,  let  who 
will  be  at  the  helm. 

She  also  cared  very  much  who  was 
the  new  Bishop.  Religion  —  if  not 
religion,  theology  —  would  be  affected 
thereby. 

She  was  enthusiastic  about  poets ; 
imagined  their  verse  to  be  some  sort 
of  clew  to  their  characters,  and  so  on. 

She  had  other  theories,  which  will 
be  indicated  by  and  by  ;  at  present  it 
is  enough  to  say  that  her  mind  was 
young,  healthy,  somewhat  original, 
full  of  fire  and  faith,  and  empty  of 
experience. 

Lord  Ipsden  loved  her !  it  was  easy 
to  love  her. 

First,  there  was  not,  in  the  whole 
range  of  her  mind  and  body,  one  grain 
of  affectation  of  any  sort. 

She  was  always,  in  point  of  fact, 
under  the  influence  of  some  male 
mind  or  other,  generally  some  writer. 
What  young  woman  is  not,  more  or 
less,  a  mirror?  But  she  never  imi- 
tated or  affected ;  she  was  always 
herself,  by  whomsoever  colored. 

Then  she  was  beautiful  and  elo- 
quent; much  too  high-bred  to  put  a 
restraint  upon  her  natural  manner, 
she  was  often  more  naive,  and  even 
brusque,  than  your  would-be  aristo- 
crats dare  to  be  ;  but  what  a  charm- 
ing abruptness  hers  was ! 

I  do  not  excel  in  descriptions,  and 
yet  I  want  to  give  you  some  carnal 
idea  of  a  certain  peculiarity  and  charm 
this  lady  possessed  ;  permit  me  to  call 
a  sister  art  to  my  aid. 

There  has  lately  stepped  upon  the 
French  stage  a  charming  personage, 


whose  manner  is  quite  free  from  the 
affectation  that  soils  nearly  all  French 
actresses,  —  Mademoiselle  Madeleine 
Brohan  !  When  you  see  this  young 
lady  play  Mademoiselle  La  Segliere, 
you  see  high-bred  sensibility  person- 
ified, and  you  see  something  like  La- 
dy Barbara  Sinclair. 

She  was  a  connection  of  Lord  Ips- 
den's,  but  they  had  not  met  for  two 
years,  when  they  encountered  each 
other  in  Paris  just  before  the  com- 
mencement of  this  "  Dramatic  Story," 
"  Novel "  by  courtesy. 

The  month  he  spent  in  Paris,  near 
her,  was  a  bright  month  to  Lord  Ips- 
den. A  by-standcr  would  not  have 
gathered,  from  his  manner,  that  he 
was  warmly  in  love  with  this  lady, 
but,  for  all  that,  his  Lordship  was 
gradually  uncoiling  himself,and  grace- 
fully, quietly,  basting  in  the  rays  of 
Barbara  Sinclair. 

He  was  also  just  beginning  to  take 
an  interest  in  subjects  of  the  day,  — 
ministries,  flat  paintings,  controversial 
novels,  Cromwell's  spotless  integrity, 
&c.,  —  why  not?  They  interested 
her. 

Suddenly  the  lady  and  her  family 
returned  to  England.  Lord  Ipsden, 
who  was  going  to  Rome,  came  to 
England  instead. 

She  had  not  been  five  days  in  Lon- 
don, before  she  made  her  preparations 
to  spend  six  months  in  Perthshire. 

This  brought  matters  to  a  climax. 

Lord  Ipsden  proposed  in  form. 

Lady  Barbara  was  surprised ;  she 
had  not  viewed  his  graceful  attentions 
in  that  light  at  all.  However,  she 
answered  by  letter  his  proposal  which 
had  been  made  by  letter. 

After  a  few  of  those  courteous  words 
a  lady  always  bestows  on  a  gentleman 
who  has  offered  her  the  highest  com- 
pliment any  man  has  it  in  his  power 
to  offer  any  woman,  she  came  to  the 
point  in  the  following  characteristic 
manner :  — 

"  The  man  I  marry  must  have  two 
things,  virtues  and  vices,  —  you  have 
neither :  you  do  nothing,  and  never 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


103 


will  do  anything  but  sketch  and  hum 
tunes,  and  dance  and  dangle  :  forget 
this  folly  the  day  after  to-morrow,  my 
dear  Ipsden,  and,  if  I  may  ask  a  favor 
of  one  to  whom  I  refuse  that  which 
would  not  be  a  kindness,  be  still  good 
friends  with  her  who  will  always  be 
"  Your  affectionate  Cousin, 
"  BARBARA  SINCLAIR." 

Soon  after  this  effusion  she  vanished 
into  Perthshire,  leaving  her  cousin 
stunned  by  a  blow  which  she  thought 
would  be  only  a  scratch  to  one  of  his 
character. 

Lord  Ipsden  relapsed  into  greater 
listlessness  than  before  he  had  cher- 
ished these  crushed  hopes.  The 
world  now  became  really  dark  and 
blank  to  him.  He  was  too  languid  to 
go  anywhere  or  do  anything ;  a  re- 
publican might  have  compared  the 
settled  expression  of  his  handsome, 
hopeless  face  with  that  of  most  day- 
laborers  of  the  same  age,  and  mod- 
erated his  envy  of  the  rich  and  titled. 

At  last  he  became  so  pale  as  well 
as  languid,  that  Mr.  Saunders  inter- 
fered. 

Saunders  was  a  model  valet  and 
factotum  ;  who  had  been  with  his 
master  ever  since  he  left  Eton,  and 
had  made  himself  necessary  to  him  in 
their  journeys. 

The  said  Saunders  was  really  an 
invaluable  servant,  and,  with  a  world 
of  obsequiousness,  contrived  to  have 
his  own  way  on  most  occasions.  He 
had,  I  believe,  only  one  great  weak- 
ness, that  of  imagining  a  beau-ideal 
of  aristocracy  and  then  outdoing  it  in 
the  person  of  John  Saunders. 

Now  this  Saunders  was  human,  and 
could  not  be  eight  years  with  this 
young  gentleman  and  not  take  some 
little  interest  in  him.  He  was  flunky, 
and  took  a  great  interest  in  him,  as 
stepping-stone  to  his  own  greatness. 
So  when  he  saw  him  turning  pale  and 
thin,  and  reading  one  letter  fifty ! 
times,  he  speculated  and  inquired 
what  was  the  matter.  He  brought 
the  intellect  of  Mr.  Saunders  to  bear  on 
the  question  at  the  following  angle :  — 


"  Now,  if  I  was  a  yonng  lord  with 
.£20,000  a  year,  and  all  the  world  at  my 
feet,  what  would  make  me  in  this  way  ? " 

"  Why,  the  liver !     Nothing  else." 

"And  that  is  what  is  wrong  with 
him,  you  may  depend." 

This  conclusion  arrived  at.  Mr. 
Saunders  coolly  wrote  his  convictions 
to  Dr.  Aberford,  and  desired  that  gen- 
tleman's immediate  attention  to  the 
case.  An  hour  or  two  later,  he  glided 
into  his  lord's  room,  not  without  some 
secret  trepidation,  no  trace  of  which 
appeared  on  his  face.  He  pulled  a 
long  histrionic  countenance.  "My 
Lord,"  said  he,  in  soft,  melancholy 
tones,  "your  Lordship's  melancholy 
state  of  health  gives  me  great  anxiety ; 
and,  with  many  apologies  to  your 
Lordship,  the  Doctor  is  sent  for,  my 
Lord." 

"Why,  Saunders,  you  are  mad; 
there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me." 

"I  beg  your  Lordship's  pardon, 
your  Lordship  is  very  ill,  and  Dr. 
Aberford  sent  for." 

"  You  may  go,  Saunders." 

"  Yes,  my  Lord.  I  could  n't  help 
it ;  I  've  outstepped  my  duty,  my 
Lord,  but  I  could  not  stand  quiet  and 
see  your  Lordship  dying  by  inches." 
Here  Mr.  S.  put  a  cambric  handker- 
chief artistically  to  his  eyes,  and  glided 
out,  having  disarmed  censure. 

Lord  Ipsden  fell  into  a  revery. 

"  Is  my  mind  or  my  body  disor- 
dered ?  Dr.  Aberford  !  —  absurd !  — 
Saunders  is  getting  too  pragmatical. 
The  Doctor  shall  prescribe  for  him  in- 
stead of  me ;  by  Jove,  that  would 
serve  him  right."  And  my  Lord 
faintly  chuckled.  "  No !  this  is  what 
I  am  ill  of,"  —  and  he  read  the  fatal 
note  again.  "  I  do  nothing !  —  cruel, 
unjust,"  sighed  he.  "  I  could  have 
done,  would  have  done,  anything  to 
please  her.  Do  nothing  !  nobody  does 
anything  now,  —  things  don't  come 
in  your  way  to  be  done  as  they  used 
centuries  ago,  or  we  should  do  them 
just  the  same  ;  it  is  their  fault,  not 
ours,"  argued  his  Lordship,  somewhat 
confusedly;  then,  leaning  his  brow 
upon  the  sofa,  he  wished  to  die  :  for, 


104 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTONE. 


at  that  dark  moment,  life  seemed  to 
this  fortunate  man  an  aching  void  ;  a 
weary,  stale,  flat,  unprofitable  tale  ;  a 
faded  flower ;  a  ball-room  after  day- 
light has  crept  in,  and  music,  motion, 
and  beauty  are  fled  away. 

"  LJr.  Aberford,  my  Lord." 

This  announcement,  made  by  Mr. 
Saunders,  checked  his  Lordship  s  rev- 
ery. 

"  Insults  everybody,  does  he  not, 
Saunders  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  Lord,"  said  Saunders, 
monotonously. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  me ;  that  might 
amuse  me,"  said  the  other. 

A  moment  later  the  Doctor  howled 
into  the  apartment,  tugging  at  his 
gloves,  as  he  ran. 

The  contrast  between  him  and  our 
poor  rich  friend  is  almost  beyond 
human  language. 

Here  lay  on  a  sofa  Ipsden,  one  of 
the  most  distinguished  young  gentle- 
men in  Europe  :  a  creature  incapable, 
by  nature,  of  a  rugged  tone  or  a  coarse 
gesture:  a  being  without  the  slight- 
est apparent  pretension,  but  refined 
beyond  the  wildest  dream  of  dandies. 
To  him,  enter  Abcrford,  perspiring 
and  shouting.  He  was  one  of  those 
globules  of  human  quicksilver  one 
sees  now  and  then  for  two  seconds  ; 
they  are,  in  fact,  two  globules  ;  their 
head  is  one,  invariably  bald,  round, 
and  glittering:  the  body  is  another 
in  activity  and  shape,  totus  teres  atque 
rotundas;  and  in  fifty  years  they  live 
five  centuries.  Horum  Rex  Aber- 
ford, —  of  these  our  Doctor  was  the 
chief.  He  had  hardly  torn  off  one 
glove,  and  rolled  as  far  as  the  third 
flower  from  the  door  on  his  Lord- 
ship's carpet,  before  he  shouted  :  — 

"  This  is  my  patient,  lolloping  in 
pursuit  of  health.  —  Your  hand," 
added  he.  For  he  was  at  the  sofa 
long  before  his  Lordship  could  glide 
off  it. 

"  Tongue.  —  Pulse  is  good.  — 
Breathe  in  my  face." 

"Breathe  in  your  face,  sir!  how 
can  I  do  that  7  ""  (with  an  air  of  mild 
doubt.) 


"  By  first  inhaling,  and  then  exhal- 
ing in  the  direction  required,  or  how 
can  I  make  acquaintance  with  your 
bowels  ?  " 

"  My  bowels  ?  " 

"  The  abdomen,  and  the  greater 
and  lesser  intestines.  Well,  never 
mind,  I  can  get  at  them  another  way ; 
give  your  heart  a  slap,  so.  —  That's 
your  liver.  —  And  that  'a  your  dia- 
phragm." 

His  Lordship  having  found  the  re- 
quired spot  (some  people  that  I  know 
could  not)  and  slapped  it,  the  Aber- 
ford made  a  circular  spring  and  lis- 
tened eagerly  at  his  shoulder-blade  ; 
the  result  of  this  scientific  pantomime 
seemed  to  be  satisfactory,  for  he  ex- 
claimed, not  to  say  bawled  :  — 

"  Hallo !  here  is  a  Viscount  as 
sound  as  a  roach  !  Now,  young  gen- 
tleman," added  he  ;  "  your  organs 
are  superb,  yet  you  are  really  out  of 
sorts ;  it  follows  you  have  the  mala- 
dies of  idle  minds,  love,  perhaps, 
among  the  rest ;  you  blush,  a  diag- 
nostic of  that  disorder ;  make  your 
mind  easy,  cutaneous  disorders,  such 
as  love,  &c.,  shall  never  kill  a  patient 
of  mine  with  a  stomach  like  yours : 
so,  now  to  cure  you  ! "  And  away 
went  the  spherical  Doctor,  with  his 
hands  behind  him,  not  up  and  down 
the  room,  but  slanting  and  tacking, 
like  a  knight  on  a  chess-board.  He 
had  not  made  many  steps  before, 
turning  his  upper  globule,  without 
affecting  his  lower,  he  hurled  back, 
in  a  cold  business-like  tone,  the  fol- 
lowing interrogatory :  — 

"  What  are  your  vices  ?  " 

"  Saunders,"  inquired  the  patient, 
"  which  are  m'y  vices  ?  " 

"  M'  Lord,  Lordship  has  n't  any 
vices,"  replied  Saunders,  with  dull, 
matter-of-fact  solemnity. 

"  Lady  Barbara  makes  the  same 
complaint,"  thought  Lord  Ipsden. 

"  It  seems  I  have  not  any  vices, 
Dr.  Aberford,"  said  he,  demurely. 

"  That  is  bad  ;  nothing  to  get  hold 
of.  What  interests  you,  then  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember."    • 

"  What  amuses  you  ?  " 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


105 


"  1  forget." 

"  What !  no  winning  horse  to  gal- 
lop away  your  rents  1 " 

"  No,  sir  !  " 

"  No  Opera  Girl  to  run  her  foot 
and  ankle  through  your  purse  ?  " 

"  No,  sir !  and  I  think  their  ankles 
are  not  what  they  were." 

"  Stuff'!  just  the  same,  from  their 
ankles  up  to  their  ears,  and  down 
again  to  their  morals ;  it  is  your  eyes 
that  are  sunk  deeper  into  your  head. 
Hum  !  no  horses,  no  vices,  no  dancers, 
no  yacht ;  you  confound  one's  notions 
of  nobility,  and  I  ought  to  know 
them,  for  I  have  to  patch  them  all  up 
a  bit  just  before  they  go  to  the  deuce." 

"  But  I  have,  Doctor  Aberford." 

"  What !  " 

"  A  yacht !  and  a  clipper  she  is 
too." 

"Ah  !  —  (Now  I  'vc  got  him.)" 

"  In  the  Bay  of  Biscay  she  lay  half 
a  point  nearer  tho  wind  than  Lord 
Heavyjib." 

"  Oh  !  bother  Lord  Heavyjib,  and 
his  Bay  of  Biscay." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  they  have  of- 
ten bothered  me." 

"  Send  her  round  to  Granton  Pier, 
in  the  Firth  of  Forth." 

"I  will,  sir." 

"  And  write  down  this  prescription." 
And  away  he  walked  again,  thinking 
the  prescription. 

"  Saunders,"  appealed  his  master. 

"  Saunders  be  hanged." 

"  Sir ! "  said  Saunders,  with  dignity, 
"  I  thank  you." 

"  Don't  thank  me,  thank  your  own 
deserts,"  replied  the  modern  Chester- 
field. "  Oblige  me  by  writing  it  your- 
self, my  Lord,  it  is  all  the  bodily 
exercise  you  will  have  had  to-day,  no 
doubt." 

The  young  Viscount  bowed,  seated 
himself  at  a  desk,  and  wrote  from  dic- 
tation :  — 

"Dit.  ABERFORD'S  PRESCRIPTION. 

"  Make  acquaintance  with  all  the 
people  of  low  estate  who  have  time  to 
be  bothered  with  you ;  learn  their 


ways,  their  minds,  and,  above  all, 
their  troubles." 

"  Won't  all  this  bore  me  ?  "  sug- 
gested the  writer. 

"  You  will  see.  Relieve  one  fellow- 
creature  every  day,  and  let  Mr.  Saun- 
ders book  the  circumstances." 

"  I  shall  like  this  part,"  said  the  pa- 
tient, laying  down  his  pen.  "  How 
clever  of  you  to  think  of  such  things  ; 
may  not  I  do  two  sometimes  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not ;  one  pill  per  day.  — 
Write,  Fish  the  herring!  (that  beats 
deer-stalking.)  Run  your  nose  into 
adventures  at  sea ;  live  on  tenpence, 
and  earn  it.  Is  it  down  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  down,  but  Saunders 
would  have  written  it  better." 

"  If  he  had  n't  he  ought  to  be 
hanged,"  said  the  Aberford,  inspect- 
ing the  work.  "  I  'm  off,  where  's  my 
hat  ?  oh,  there ,  where  's  my  money  ? 
oh,  here.  Now  look  here,  follow  my 
prescription,  and 

You  will  soon  have  Mens  sana  in  corpora 

sano  ; 
And  not  care  whether  the  girls  say  yes  or 

say  no  ; 

neglect  it,  and  —  my  gloves  ;  oh,  in 
my  pocket  —  you  will  be  Uas€  and 
ennuye,  and  (an  English  participle, 
that  means  something  as  bad) ;  God 
bless  you ! " 

And  out  he  scuttled,  glided  after  by 
Saunders,  for  whom  he  opened  and 
shut  the  street  door. 

Never  was  a  greater  effect  produced 
by  a  doctor's  visit ;  patient  and  physi- 
cian were  made  for  each  other.  Dr. 
Aberford  was  the  specific  for  Lord 
Ipsden.  He  came  to  him  like  a  shower 
to  a  fainting  strawberry.  % 

Saunders,  on  his  return,  found  his 
Lord  pacing  the  apartment. 

"  Saunders,"  said  he,  smartly, 
"send  down  to  Gravesend,  and  or- 
der the  yacht  to  this  place,  —  what  is 
it?" 

"  Granton  Pier.     Yes,  my  Lord." 

"  And,  Saunders,  take  clothes,  and 
books,  and  violins,  and  telescopes,  and  • 
things  —  and  me  —  to  Euston  Square, 
in  an  hour." 

"  Impossible,  my  Lord,  cried  Saun- 


106 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONS. 


ders,  in  dismay.     "  And  there  is  no 
train  for  hours." 

His  master  replied  with  a  hundred- 
pound  note,  and  a  quiet,  but  wickedish 
look ;  and  the  prince  of  gentlemen's 
gentleman  had  all  the  required  items 
with  him,  in  a  special  train,  within  the 
specified  time,  and  away  they  flashed, 
northwards. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  is  said  that  opposite  characters 
make  a  union  happiest ;  and  perhaps 
Lord  Ipsden,  diffident  of  himself,  felt 
the  value  to  him  of  a  creature  so  dif- 
ferent as  Lady  Barbara  Sinclair  ;  but 
the  lady,  for  her  part,  was  not  so  dif- 
fident of  herself,  nor  was  she  in  search 
of  her  opposite ;  on  the  contrary,  she 
was  waiting  patiently  to  find  just  such 
a  man  as  she  was,  or  fancied  herself,  a 
woman. 

Accustomed  to  measure  men  by 
their  characters  alone,  and  to  treat 
•with  sublime  contempt  the  accidents 
of  birth  and  fortune,  she  had  been  a 
little  staggered  by  the  assurance  of  this 
butterfly  that  had  proposed  to  settle 
upon  her  hand  —  for  life. 

In  a  word,  the  beautiful  writer  of 
the  fatal  note  was  honestly  romantic, 
according  to  the  romance  of  1848, 
and  of  good  society ;  of  course  she 
was  not  affected  by  hair  tumbling 
back  or  plastered  down  forwards,  and 
a  rolling  eye  went  no  further  with  her 
than  a  squinting  one. 

Her  romance  was  stern,  not  sickly. 
She  was  on  the  lookout  for  iron  vir- 
tues ;.  she  had  sworn  to  be  wooed 
with  great  deeds,  or  never  won;  on 
this  subject  she  had  thought  much, 
though  not  enough  to  ask  herself 
whether  great  deeds  are  always  to  be 
got  at,  however  disposed  a  lover  may 
be. 

No  matter  ;  she  kept  herself  in  re- 
serve for  some  earnest  man,  who  was 
not  to  come  flattering  and  fooling  to 
her,  but  look  another  way  and  do  ex- 
ploits. 

She  liked  Lord  Ipsden,  her  cousin 


once  removed,  but  despised  him  for 
being  agreeable,  handsome,  clever, 
and  nobody. 

She  was  also  a  little  bitten  with 
what  she  and  others  called  the  Middle 
Ages,  in  fact  with  that  picture  of  them 
which  Grub  Street,  imposing  on  the 
simplicity  of  youth,  had  got  up  for 
sale  by  arraying  painted  glass,  gilt 
rags,  and  fancy,  against  fact. 

With  these  vague  and  sketchy  no- 
tices we  are  compelled  to  part,  for  the 
present,  with  Lady  Barbara :  but  it 
serves  her  right ;  she  has  gone  to  es- 
tablish her  court  in  Perthshire,  and  left 
her  rejected  lover  on  our  hands. 

Journeys  of  a  few  hundred  miles  are 
no  longer  described. 

You  exchange  a  dead  chair  for  a  liv- 
ing chair,  Saunders  puts  in  your  hand 
a  new  tale 'like  this  ;  you  mourn  the 
superstition  of  booksellers,  which  still 
inflicts  uncut  leaves  upon  humanity, 
though  tailors  do  not  send  home  coats 
with  the  sleeves  stitched  up,  nor  cham- 
bermaids put  travellers  into  apple-pie 
beds  as  well  as  damp  sheets.  You 
rend  and  read,  and  are  at  Edinburgh, 
fatigued  more  or  less,  but  not  by  the 
journey. 

Lord  Ipsden  was,  therefore,  soon 
installed  by  the  Firth  side,,  full  of  the 
Aberford. 

The  young  nobleman  not  only  ven- 
erated the  Doctor's  sagacity,  but  half 
admired  his  brusquerie  and  bustle ; 
things  of  which  he  was  himself  never 
guilty. 

As  for  the  prescription,  that  was  a 
Delphic  Oracle.  Worlds  could  not 
have  tempted  him  to  deviate  from  a 
letter  in  it. 

He  waited  with  impatience  for  the 
yacht ;  and,  meantime,  it  struck  him 
that  the  first  part  of  the  prescription 
could  be  attacked  at  once. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  day  suc- 
ceeding his  arrival.  The  Fifeshire 
hills,  seen  across  the  Firth  from  his 
windows,  were  beginning  to  take  their 
charming  violet  tinge,  a  light  breeze 
ruffled  the  blue  water  into  a  sparkling 
smile,  the  shore  was  tranquil,  and  the 
sea  full  of  noiseless  life,  with  the  craft 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


107 


of  all  size's  gliding  and  dancing  and 
courtcsying  on  their  trackless  roads. 

The  air  was  tepid,  pure,  and  sweet 
as  heaven  ;  this  bright  afternoon,  Na- 
ture had  grudged  nothing  that  could 
give  fresh  life  and  hope  to  such  dwell- 
ers in  dust  and  smoke  and  vice  as 
were  there  to  look  awhile  on  her 
clean  face  and  drink  her  honeyed 
breath. 

This  young  gentleman  was  not  in- 
sensible to  the  beauty  of  the  scene. 
He  was  a  little  lazy  by  nature,  and 
made  lazier  by  the  misfortune  of 
wealth,  but  he  had  sensibilities ;  he 
was  an  artist  of  great  natural  talent ; 
had  he  only  been  without  a  penny, 
how  he  would  have  handled  the  brush  ! 
And  then  he  was  a  mighty  sailor ; 
if  he  had  sailed  for  biscuit  a  few 
years,  how  he  would  have  handled  a 
ship ! 

As  he  was,  he  had  the  eye  of  a 
hawk  for  Nature's  beauties,  and  the 
sea  always  came  back  to  him  like  a 
friend  after  an  absence. 

This  scene,  then,  curled  round  his 
heart  a  little,  and  he  felt  the  good 
physician  was  wiser  than  the  tribe 
that  go  by  that  name,  and  strive  to 
build  health  on  the  sandy  foundation 
of  drugs. 

"  Saunders !  do  you  know  what 
Dr.  Aberford  means  by  the  lower 
classes  ? " 

"Perfectly,  my  Lord." 

"  Are  there  any  about  here  1 " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  they  are  every- 
where, my  Lord." 

"  Get  me  some "  —  (cigarette). 

Out  went  Saunders,  with  his  usual 
graceful  empressement,  but  an  internal 
shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

He  was  absent  an  hour  and  a  half; 
he  then  returned  with  a  double  expres- 
sion on  his  face,  —  pride  at  his  success 
in  diving  to  the  very  bottom  of  soci- 
ety, and  contempt  of  what  he  had 
fished  up  thence. 

He  approached  his  Lord  mysterious- 
ly, and  said,  sotto  voce,  but  impres- 
sively, "  This  is  low  enough,  my 
Lord."  Then  glided  back,  and  ushered 
in,  with  jpolite  disdain,  two  lovelier 


women  than  he  had  ever  opened  a 
door  to  in  the  whole  course  of  his  per- 
fumed existence. 

On  their  heads  they  wore  caps  of 
Dutch  or  Flemish  origin,  with  a 
broad  lace  border,  stiffened  and  arched 
over  the  forehead,  about  three  inches 
high,  leaving  the  brow  and  cheeks 
unencumbered. 

They  had  cotton  jackets,  bright  red 
and  yellow,  mixed  in  patterns,  con- 
fined at  the  waist  by  the  apron-strings, 
but  bobtailed  below  the  waist ;  short 
woollen  petticoats,  with  broad  vertical 
stripes,  red  and  white,  most  vivid  in 
color ;  white  worsted  stockings,  and 
neat,  though  high-quartered  shoes. 
Under  their  jackets  they  wore  a  thick 
spotted  cotton  handkerchief,  about 
one  inch  of  which  was  visible  round 
the  lower  part  of  the  throat. 

Of  their  petticoats,  the  outer  one 
was  kilted,  or  gathered  up  towards 
the  front,  and  the  second,  of  the  same 
color,  hung  in  the  usual  way. 

Of  these  young  women,  one  had  an 
olive  complexion,  with  the  red  blood 
mantling  under  it,  and  black  hair, 
and  glorious  black  eyebrows. 

The  other  was  fair,  with  a  massive 
but  shapely  throat,  as  white  as  milk; 
glossy  brown  hair,  the  loose  threads 
of  which  glittered  like  gold,  and  a 
blue  eye,  which,  being  contrasted  with 
dark  eyebrows  and  lashes,  took  the 
luminous  effect  peculiar  to  that  rare 
beauty. 

Their  short  petticoats  revealed  a 
neat  ankle,  and  a  leg  with  a  noble 
swell ;  for  Nature,  when  she  is  in 
earnest,  builds  beauty  o4  the  ideas  of 
ancient  sculptors  and  poets,  not  of 
modern  poetasters,  who,  with  their 
airy-like  sylphs  and  their  smoke-like 
verses,  fight  for  want  of  flesh  in  wo- 
man and  want  of  fact  in  poetry  as 
parallel  beauties. 

They  are,  my  lads.  —  Continuez  ! 

These  women  had  a  grand  corpo- 
real trait;  they  had  never  known  a 
corset !  so  they  "  were  straight  as 
javelins ;  they  could  lift  their  hands 
above  their  heads !  —  actually !  Their 
supple  persons  moved  as  Nature  in- 


108 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


tended ;  every  gesture  was  ease,  grace, 
and  freedom. 

What  with  their  own  radiance,  and 
the  snowy  cleanliness  and  brightness 
of  their  costume,  they  came  like  me- 
teors into  the  apartment 

Lord  Ipsden,  rising  gently  from  his 
seat,  with  the  same  quiet  politeness 
with  which  he  would  have  received  I 
two    princes    of  the     blood,    said, 
"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  and  smiled  a  ; 
welcome. 

"Fine!  hoow  's  yoursel  ?  "  answered 
the  dark  lass,  whose  name  was  Jean 
Carnie,  and  whose  voice  was  not  so 
sweet  as  her  face. 

"  What'n  lord  are  ye  ?  "  continued 
she  ;  "  are  you  a  juke  ?  I  wad  like 
fine  to  hae  a  crack  wi'  a  juke." 

Saunders,  who  knew  himself  the 
cause  of  this  question,  replied,  sotto 
voce,  "  His  Lordship  is  a  viscount" 

"  I  didna  ken't,"  was  Jean's  re- 
mark. "  But  it  has  a  bonny  soond." 

"  What  mair  would  ye  hae  ?  "  said  | 
the  fair  beauty,  whose  name  was 
Christie  Johnstone.  Then,  appealing 
to  his  Lordship  as  the  likeliest  to 
know,  she  added,  "Nobeelity  is  just 
a  soond  itsel,  I  'm  tauld." 

The  Viscount,  finding  himself  ex- 
pected to  say  something  on  a  topic  he 
had  not  attended  much  to,  answered 
dryly :  "  We  must  ask  the  republi- 
cans, they  are  the  people  that  give 
their  minds  to  such  subjects." 

"  And  yon  man,"  asked  Jean  Car- 
nie, "  is  he  a  lord,  too  1  " 

"  I  am  his  Lordship's  servant,"  re- 
plied Saunders,  gravely,  not  without 
a  secret  misgiving  whether  fate  had 
been  just. 

"  Na  !  "  replied  she,  not  to  be  im- 
posed upon,  "ye- are  statelier  and 
prooder  than  this  ane." 

"  I  will  explain,"  said  his  master. 
"  Saunders  knows  his  value ;  a  ser- 
vant like  Saunders  is  rarer  than  an 
idle  viscount." 

"  My  Lord,  my  Lord ! "  remonstrat- 
ed Saunders,  with  "a  shocked  and  most 
disclamatory  tone.  "  Rather  !  "  was 
his  inward  reflection. 

"Jean,"  said    Christie,  "ye   hae 


muckle  to  laern.  Are  ye  for  herrin' 
the  day,  Vile  Count  ?  "" 

"  No  !  are  you  for  this  sort  of 
thing  ?  " 

At  this,  Saunders,  with  a  world  of 
empressement,  offered  the  Carnie  some 
cake  that  was  on  the  table. 

She  took  a  piece,  instantly  spat  it 
out  into  her  hand,  and  with  more  en- 
ergy than  delicacy  flung  it  into  the 
fire. 

"  Augh  !  "  cried  she,  "just  a  sugar 
and  saut  butter  thegither;  buy  nae 
mair  at  yon  shoep,  Vile  Count." 

"  Try  this,  out  of  Nature's  shop," 
laughed  their  entertainer ;  and  he 
offered  them,  himself,  some  peaches 
and  things. 

"  Hech !  a  medi — cine!"  said  Chris- 
tie. 

"  Nature,  my  lad,"  said  Miss  Car- 
nie, making  her  ivory  teeth  meet  in 
their  first  nectarine,  "  I  didna  ken 
whaur  ye  stoep,  but  ye  beat  the  other 
confectioners,  that  div  ye." 

The  fair  lass,  who  had  watched 
the  Viscount  all  this  time  as  demure- 
ly as  a  cat  cream,  now  approached 
him. 

This  young  woman  was  the  think- 
er ;  her  voice  was  also  rich,  full,  and 
melodious,  and  her  manner  very  en- 
gaging ;  it  was  half  advancing,  half 
retiring,  not  easy  to  resist  or  to  de- 
scribe. 

"  Noo,"  said  she,  with  a  very  slight 
blush  stealing  across  her  face,  "  ye 
maun  let  me  catecheeze  ye,  wull  ye  ?  " 

The  last  two  words  were  said  in  a 
way  that  would  have  induced  a  bear 
to  reveal  his  winter  residence. 

He  smiled  assent.  Saunders  re- 
tired to  the  door,  and,  excluding  every 
shade  of  curiosity  from  his  face,  took 
an  attitude,  half  majesty,  half  obsequi- 
ousness. 

Christie  stood  by  Lord  Ipsden,  with 
one  hand  on  her  hip  (the  knuckles 
downwards),  but  graceful  as  Anti- 
nous,  and  began. 

"  Hoo  muckle  is  the  Queen  greater 
than  y'  are  ?  " 

His  Lordship  was  obliged  to  reflect. 

"  Let  me  see,  —  as  is  the  moon  to 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


109 


a  wax  taper,  so  is  her  Majesty  the 
Queen  to  you  and  me,  and  the  rest." 

"  An'  whaur  does  the  Juke  *  come 
in?" 

"  On  this  particular  occasion,  the 
Duket  makes  one  of  us,  my  pretty 
maid." 

"  I  see !  Are  na  ye  awfu'  prood 
o'  being  a  Lorrd  ?  " 

"  What  an  idea !  " 

"  His  Lordship  did  not  go  to  bed  a 
spinning-jenny,  and  rise  up  a  lord, 
like  some  of  them,"  put  in  Saunders. 

"  Saunders,"  said  the  peer,  doubt- 
fully, "  eloquence  rather  bores  peo- 
ple." 

"  Then  I  must  n't  speak  again,  my 
Lord,"  said  Saunders,  respectful ly. 

"  Noo,"  said  the  fair  inquisitor, 
"  ye  shall  tell  me  how  ye  came  to  be 
Lorrds,  your  faemily  ?  " 

"  Saunders ! " 

"  Na !  ye  mauna  flee  to  Sandy  for 
a  thing,  ye  are  no  a  bairn,  are  ye  ?  " 

Here  was  a  dilemma,  the  Saunders 
prop  knocked  rudely  away,  and 
obliged  to  think  for  ourselves. 

But  Saunders  would  come  to  his 
distressed  master's  assistance.  He 
furtively  conveyed  to  him  a  plump 
book,  —  this  was  Saunders's  manual 
of  faith;  the  author  was  Mr.  Burke, 
not  Edmund. 

Lord  Ipsden  ran  hastily  over  the 
page,  closed  the  book,  and  said, 
"  Here  is  the  story. 

"  Five  hundred*  years  ago  —  " 

"  Listen,  Jean,"  said  Christie  ; 
"  we  're  gaun  to  get  a  boeny  story. 
'  Five  hundre'  years  ago,'  "  added 
she,  with  interest  and  awe. 

"  Was  a  great  battle,"  resumed  the 
narrator,  in  cheerful  tones,  as  one 
larking  with  history,  "  between  a 
King  of  England  and  his  rebels.  He 
was  in  the  thick  of  the  fight  —  " 

"  That 's  the  King,  Jean,  he  was  in 
the  thick  o't." 

"  My  ancestor  killed  a  fellow  who 
was  sneaking  behind  him,  but  the 
next  moment  a  man-at-arms  prepared 
a  thrust  at  his  majesty,  who  had  his 
hands  full  with  three  assailants." 


*  Buccleuca. 


t  Wellington. 


"Eh!  that's  no  fair,"  said  Chris- 
tie, "  as  sure  as  deeth." 

"  My  ancestor  dashed  forward,  and, 
as  the  king's  sword  passed  through 
one  of  them,  he  clove  another  to  the 
waist  with  a  blow." 

"  Weel  done  !  weel  done  !  " 

Lord  Ipsden  looked  at  the  speaker, 
her  eyes  were  glittering,  and  her 
cheek  flushing. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  thought  he  ; 
"  she  believes  it !  "  So  he  began  to 
take  more  pains  with  his  legend. 

"  But  for  the  spearsman,"  con- 
tinued he,  "  he  had  nothing  but  his 
body ;  he  gave  it,  it  was  his  duty,  and 
received  the  death  levelled  at  his 
sovereign." 

"  Hech !  puir  mon."  And  the 
glowing  eyes  began  to  glisten. 

"  The  battle  flowed  another  .way, 
and  God  gave  victory  to  the  right ; 
but  the  king  came  back  to  look  for 
him,  for  it  was  no  common  service." 

"  Deed  no  !  " 

Here  Lord  Ipsden  began  to  turn 
his  eye  inwards,  and  call  up  tho 
scene.  He  lowered  his  voice. 

"  They  found  him  lying  on  his 
back,  looking  death  in  the  face. 

"  The  nobles,  by  the  King's  side, 
uncovered  as  soon  as  he  was  found, 
for  they  were  brave  men,  too.  There 
was  a  moment's  silence;  eyes  met 
eyes,  and  said,  this  is  a  stout  soldier's 
last  battle. 

"  The  King  could  not  bid  him 
live." 

"  Na !  lad,  King  Deeth  has  ower 
strong  a  grrip." 

"But  he  did  what  Kings  can  do, 
he  gave  him  two  blows  with  his  royal 
sword." 

"  O,  the  robber,  and  him  a  deeing 
mon." 

"  Two  words  from  his  royal  mouth, 
and  he  and  we  were  Barons  of  Ipsden 
and  Hawthorn  Glen  from  that  day  to 
this." 

"  But  the  puir  dying  creature  ? 

"  What  poor  dying  creature  ?  " 

"  Your  Forbear,  lad." 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  call  him 
poor,  madam ;  all  the  men  of  that 


110 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


day  are  dust ;  they  are  the  gold  dust 
who  died  with  honor. 

"  He  looked  round,  uneasily,  for 
his  son,  —  for  he  had  but  one,  —  and 
when  that  son  knelt,  unwounded,  by 
him,  he  said,  '  Good  night,  Baron 
Ipsden ' ;  and  so  he  died,  fire  in  his 
eye,  a  smile  on  his  lip,  and  honor  on 
his  name  forever.  I  meant  to  tell 
you  a  lie,  and  I  Ve  told  you  the 
truth." 

"  Laddie,"  said  Christie,  half  ad- 
miringly, half  reproachfully,  "  ye  gar 
the  tear  come  in  my  een.  Hech  !  look 
at  yon  lassie  !  how  could  you  think 
t'  eat  plums  through  siccan  a  bonny 
story  ? " 

"  Hets,"  answered  Jean,  who  had, 
in  fact,  cleared  the  plate,  "  I  aye  lis- 
ten best  when  my  ain  mooth  '&  stap- 
pit." 

"  But  see,  now,"  pondered  Chris- 
tic,  "  twa  words  fra  a  King,  —  thir 
titles  are  just  breeth." 

"  Of  course,"  was  the  answer.  "  All 
titles  are.  What  is  popularity  1  ask 
Aristides  and  Lamartine :  the  breath 
of  a  mob,  —  smells  of  its  source,  — 
and  is  gone  before  the  sun  can  set  on 
it.  Now  the  royal  breath  does  smell 
of  the  Rose  and  Crown,  and  stays  by 
us  from  age  to  age." 

The  story  had  warmed  our  marble 
acquaintance.  Saunders  opened  his 
eyes,  and  thought,  "  We  shall  wake 
up  the  House  of  Lords  some  evening, 
—  we  shall." 

His  Lordship  then  added,  less 
warmly,  looking  at  the  girls  :  — 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  be  a  fish- 
erman." So  saying,  my  Lord  yawned 
slightly. 

To  this  aspiration  the  young  fish- 
wives deigned  no  attention,  doubting, 
perhaps,  its  sincerity ;  and  Christie, 
with  a  shade  of  severity,  inquired 
of  him  how  he  came  to  be  a  Vile 
Count. 

"  A  baron  's  no'  a  Vile  Count,  I  'm 
sure,"  said  she  ;  "  sae  tell  me  how  ye 
came  to  be  a  Vile  Count." 

"  Ah !  "  said  he,  "  that  is  by  no 
means  a  pretty  story  like  the  other ; 
you  will  not  like  it,  I  am  sure." 


"  Ay,  will  I,  —  ay,  will  I ;  I  'm  aye 
seeking  knoewledge." 

"  Well,  it  is  soon  told.  One  of  us 
sat  twenty  years  on  one  seat,  in  the 
same  house,  so  one  day  he  got  up  a 
—  Viscount." 

"  Ower  muckle  pay  for  ower  little 
wark." 

"  Now  don't  say  that.;  I  would  n't 
do  it  to  be  Emperor  of  Russia." 

"  Aweel,  I  hae  gotten  a  heap  out  o' 
ye ;  sae  noow  I  '11  gang,  since  ye  are 
no  for  herrin' ;  come  away,  Jean." 

At  this  their  host  remonstrated, 
and  inquired  why  bores  are  at  one's 
service  night  and  day,  and  bright  peo- 
ple are  always  in  a  hurry  ;  he  was  in- 
formed in  reply,  "  Labor  is  the  lot  o' 
man.  Div  ye  no  ken  that  muckle  1 
And  abune  a'  o'  women."  * 

"  Why,  what  can  two  such  pretty 
creatures  have  to  do  except  to  be  ad- 
mired ?  " 

This  question  coming  within  the 
dark  beauty's  scope,  she  hastened  to 
reply. 

"  To  sell  our  herrin',  —  we  hae 
three  hundre'  left  in  the  creel." 

"  What  is  the  price  ?  " 

At  this  question  the  poetry  died 
out  of  Christie  Johnstone's  face,  she 
gave  her  companion  a  rapid  look, 
indiscernible  by  male  eye,  and  an- 
swered :  — 

"  Three  a  penny,  sirr  ;  they  are  no 
plenty  the  day,"  added  she,  iu  smooth 
tones  that  carried  conviction. 

(Little  liar ;  they  were  selling  six  a 
penny  everywhere. ) 

"  Saunders,  buy  them  all,  and  be 
ever  so  long  about  it ;  count  them,  or 
some  nonsense." 

"He's  daft!  he's  daft!  O,  ye 
ken,  Jean,  an  Ennglishman  and  a 
lorrd,  twa  daft  things  thegither,  he 
could  na'  miss  the  road.  Coont 
them,  lassie." 

"  Come  away,  Sandy,  till  I  count 
them  till  ye,"  said  Jean. 

Saunders  and  Jean  disappeared. 

Business  being  out  of  sight,  curi- 
osity revived. 

"An'  what  brings  ye  here  from 
•  A  local  idea,  I  suspect  —  C.  R. 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


Ill 


London,  if  ye  please  ?  "  recommenced 
the  fair  inquisitor. 

"  You  have  a  good  countenance  ; 
there  is  something  in  your  face.  I 
could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  tell  you, 
but  I  should  bore  you." 

"  De'el  a  fear  !  Bore  me,  bore  me ! 
whaat.'s  thaat,  I  wonder?  " 

"  What  is  your  name,  madam  ? 
Mine  is  Ipsden." 

"  They  ca'  me  Christie  Johnstone." 

"  Well,  Christie  Johnstone,  I  am 
under  the  doctor's  hands." 

"  Puir  lad.  What 's  the  trouble  ?  " 
(solemnly  and  tenderly.) 

"  Ennui !  "   (rather  piteously.) 

"  Yawn-we  ?  I  never  heerd  tell 
o't." 

"  O  you  lucky  girl,"  burst  out  he  ; 
"but  the  doctor  has  undertaken  to 
cure  me ;  in  one  thing  you  could  as- 
sist me,  if  I  am  not  presuming  too 
far  on  our  short  acquaintance.  I  am 
to  relieve  one  poor  distressed  person 
every  day,  but  I  must  n't  do  two :  is 
not  that  a  bore  1  " 

"  Gie  's  your  hand,  gie  's  j'our  hand. 
I  'm  vexed  for  ca'ing  you  daft.  Hech  ! 
what  a  saft  hand  ye  hae.  Jean,  I  'm 
saying,  come  here,  feel  this." 

Jean,  who  had  run  in,  took  the 
Viscount's  hand  from  Christie. 

"  It  never  wroucht  any,"  explained 
Jean. 

"  And  he  has  bonny  hair,"  said 
Christie,  just  touching  his  locks  on 
the  other  side. 

"  He 's  a  bonny  lad,"  said  Jean,  in- 
specting him  scientifically,  and  point- 
blank.  • 

"Ay,  is  he,"  said  the  other. 
"Aweel,  there 's  Jess  Rutherford,  a 
widdy,  wi'  four  bairns,  ye  meicht  do 
waur  than  ware  your  siller  on  her." 

"  Five  pounds  to  begin  ?  "  inquired 
his  Lordship. 

"  Five  pund  !  Are  ye  made  o'  sil- 
ler •?  Ten  schell'n  !  " 

Saunders  was  rung  for,  and  pro- 
duced a  one-pound  note. 

"  The  herrin'  is  five  and  saxpence ; 
it 's  four  and  saxpence  I  'm  awin  ye," 
said  the  young  fishwife,  "  and  Jess 
will  be  a  glad  woman  the  neicht." 


The  settlement  was  effected,  and 
away  went  the  two  friends,  saying  : — 

"  Good  boye,  Vile  Count." 

Their  host  fell  into  thought. 

"  When  have  I  talked  so  much  ?  " 
asked  he  of  himself. 

"  Dr.  Aberford,  yon  are  a  wonder- 
ful man ;  I  like  your  lower  classes 
amazingly." 

"  Me'fiez  vous,  Monsieur  Ipsden  ! " 
should  some  mentor  have  said. 

As  the  Devil  puts  into  a  beginner's 
hands  ace,  queen,  five  trumps,  to 
give  him  a  taste  for  whist,  so  these 
lower  classes  have  perhaps  put  for- 
ward one  of  their  best  cards  to  lead 
you  into  a  false  estimate  of  the  strength 
of  their  hand. 

Instead,  however,  of  this,  who 
should  return,  to  disturb  the  equilib- 
rium of  truth,  but  this  Christina  John- 
stone  ?  She  came  thoughtfully  in, 
and  said :  — 

"  I  've  been  taking  a  thoucht,  and 
this  is  no  what  yon  gude  physeecian 
meaned ;  ye  are  no  to  fling  your 
chaerity  like  a  bane  till  a  doeg ;  ye  '11 
gang  yoursel  to  Jess  Rutherford; 
Flucker  Johnstone,  that 's  my  brother, 
will  convoy  ye." 

"  But  how  is  your  brother  to  know 
me?" 

"  How  ?  Because  I  '11  gie  him  a 
sair  sair  hiding,  if  he  lets  ye  gang 
by." 

Then  she  returned  the  one-pound 
note,  a  fresh  settlement  was  effected, 
and  she  left  him. 

At  the  door  she  said :  "  And  I  am 
muckle  obleeged  to  ye  for  your  story 
and  your  goodness." 

Whilst  uttering  these  words,  she 
half  kissed  her  hand  to  him,  with  a 
lofty  and  disengaged  gesture,  such  as 
one  might  expect  from  a  queen,  if 
queens  did  not  wear  stays  ;  and  was 
gone. 

When  his  Lordship,  a  few  minutes 
after,  sauntered  out  for  a  stroll,  the 
first  object  he  beheld  was  an  exact 
human  square,  a  handsome  boy,  with 
a  body  swelled  out  apparently  to  the 
size  of  a  man's,  with  blue  flannel,  and 
blue  cloth  above  it,  leaning  against  a 


112 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONS. 


wall,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  — 
a  statuette  of  insouciance. 

This  marine  puff-ball  was  Flucker 
Johnstone,  aged  fourteen. 

Stain  his  sister's  face  with  diluted 
walnut-juice,  as  they  make  the  stage 
gypsy  and  Red  Indian  (two  animals 
imagined  by  actors  to  be  one),  and 
you  have  Flucker's  face. 

A  slight  moral  distinction  remains, 
not  to  be  so  easily  go't  over. 

She  was  the  best  girl  in  the  place, 
and  he  a  baddish  boy. 

He  was,  however,  as  sharp  in  his 
way  as  she  was  intelligent  in  hers. 

This  youthful  mariner  allowed  his 
Lordship  to  pass  him,  and  take  twenty 
steps,  but  watched  him  all  the  time, 
and  compared  him  with  a  description 
furnished  him  by  his  sister. 

He  then  followed,  and  brought  him 
to,  as  he  called  it. 

"  I  daur  say  it 's  you  I  'm  to  con- 
voy to  yon  auld  faggitt !  "  said  this 
baddish  boy. 

On  they  went,  Flucker  rolling  and 
pitching  and  yawing  to  keep  up  with 
the  lordly  galley,  for  a  fisherman's 
natural  waddle  is  two  miles  an  hour. 

At  the  very  entrance  of  Newhaven, 
the  new  pilot  suddenly  sung  out, 
"  Starboard ! " 

Starboard  it  was,  and  they  ascend- 
ed a  filthy  "  close,"  or  alley ;  they 
mounted  a  staircase  which  was  out  of 
doors,  and,  without  knocking,  Fluck- 
er introduced  himself  into  Jess  Ruth- 
erford's house. 

"  Here  a  gentleman  to  speak  till  ye, 
wife." 


CHAPTER  in. 

THE  widow  was  weather-beaten 
and  rough.  She  sat  mending  an  old 
net. 

"  The  gentleman 's  welcome,"  said 
she  ;  but  there  was  no  gratification  in 
her  tone,  and  but  little  surprise. 

His  Lordship  then  explained  that, 
understanding  there  were  worthy  peo- 
ple in  distress,  he  was  in  hopes  he 


might  be  permitted  to  assist  them, 
and  that  she  must  blame  a  neighbor 
of  hers  if  he  had  broken  in  upon  her 
too  abruptly  with  this  object.  He 
then,  with  a  blush,  hinted  at  ten  shil- 
lings, which  he  begged  she  would  con- 
sider as  merely  an  instalment,  until 
he  could  learn  the  precise  nature  of 
her  embarrassments,  and  the  best  way 
of  placing  means  at  her  disposal. 

The  widow  heard  all  this  with  a 
lack-lustre  mind. 

For  many  years  her  life  had  been 
unsuccessful  labor ;  if  anything  had 
ever  come  to  her,  it  had  always  been 
a  misfortune ;  her  incidents  had  been 
thorns,  —  her  events,  daggers. 

She  could  not  realize  a  human  an- 
gel coining  to  her  relief,  and  she  did 
not  realize  it,  and  she  worked  away  at 
her  net. 

At  this,  Flucker,  to  whom  his  Lord- 
ship's speech  appeared  monstrously 
weak  and  pointless,  drew  nigh,  and 
gave  the  widow,  in  her  ear,  his  ver- 
sion, namely,  his  sister's  embellished. 
It  was  briefly  this  :  That  the  gentle- 
man was  a  daft  lord  from  England, 
who  had  come  with  the  bank  in  his 
breeks,  to  remove  poverty  from  Scot- 
land, beginning  with  her.  "  Sae 
speak  loud  aneuch,  and  ye  '11  no  want 
siller,"  was  his  polite  corollary. 

His  Lordship  rose,  laid  a  card  on  a 
chair,  begged  her  to  make  use  of  him, 
et  cetera  ;  he  then,  recalling  the  orac- 
ular prescription,  said,  "  Do  me  the 
favor  to  apply  to  me  for  any  little 
sum  you  have  a  use  for,  and,  in  return, 
I  will-beg  of  yon  (if  it  does  not  bore 
you  too  much)  to  make  me  acquainted 
with  any  little  troubles  you  may  have 
encountered  in  the  course  of  your 
life." 

His  Lordship,  receiving  no  answer, 
was  about  to  go,  after  bowing  to  her, 
and  smiling  gracefully  upon  her. 

His  hand  was  on  "the  latch,  when 
Jess  Rutherford  burst  into  a  passion 
of  tears. 

He  turned  with  surprise. 

"  My  troubles,  laddie,"  cried  she, 
trembling  all  over.  "  The  sun  wad 
set,  and  rise,  and  set  again,  ere  I  could 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


113 


tell  ye  a'  the  trouble  I  hae  come 
through. 

"  0,  ye  need  na  vex  yourself  for  an 
auld  wife's  tears  ;  tears  are  a  blessin', 
lad,  I  shall  assure  ye.  Mony  's  the 
time  I  hae  prayed  for  them,  and  could 
na  hae  them.  Sit  ye  doon !  sit  ye 
doon !  I  '11  no  let  ye  gang  fra  my 
door  till  I  hae  thankit  ye,  —  but  gie 
me  time,  gie  me  time.  I  canna  greet 
a'  the  days  of  the  week." 

Flucker,  cetat.  14,  opened  his  eyes, 
unable  to  connect  ten  shillings  and 
tears. 

Lord  Ipsden  sat  down,  and  felt  very 
sorry  for  her.  i 

And  she  cried  at  her  ease. 

If  one  touch  of  nature  make  the 
•whole  world  kin,  methinks  that  sweet 
and  wonderful  thing,  sympathy,  is  not 
less  powerful.  What  frozen  barriers, 
what  ice  of  centuries,  it  can  melt  in  a 
moment ! 

His  bare  mention  of  her  troubles  had 
surprised  the  widowed  woman's  heart, 
and  now  she  looked  up,  and  exam- 
ined his  countenance  ;  it  was  soon 
done. 

A  woman,  young  or  old,  high  or 
low,  can  discern  and  appreciate  sensi- 
bility in  a  man's  face,  at  a  single 
glance. 

What  she  saw  there  was  enough. 
She  was  sure  of  sympathy.  She 
recalled  her  resolve,  and  the  tale  of 
her  sorrows  burst  from  her,  like  a 
flood. 

Then  the  old  fishwife  told  the  young 
aristocrat  how  she  had  borne  twelve 
children,  and  buried  six  as  bairns  ; 
how  her  man  was  always  unlucky ; 
how  a  mast  fell  on  him,  and  disabled 
him  a  whole  season  ;  how  they  could 
but  just  keep  the  pot  boiling  by  the 
deep-sea  fishing,  and  he  was  not  al- 
lowed to  dredge  foroysters,  because  his 
fatherwas  not  a  Newhaven  man.  How, 
when  the  herring  fishing  came,  to 
make  all  right,  he  never  had  another 
man's  luck ;  how  his  boat's  crew 
would  draw  empty  nets,  and  a  boat 
alongside  him  would  be  gunwale  down 
in  the  water  with  the  fish.  How,  at 
last,  one  morning,  the  20th  day  of 


November,  his  boat  came  in  to  New- 
haven  Pier  without  him,  and  when  he 
was  inquired  for,  his  crew  said,  "  He 
had  stayed  at  home,  like  a  lazy  loon, 
and  not  sailed  with  them  the  night  be- 
fore." How  she  was  anxious,  and 
had  all  the  public-houses  searched, 
"  For  he  took  a  drop  now  and  then, 
nae  wonder,  and  him  aye  in  tho 
weather."  Poor  thing  !  when  he  was 
alive  she  used  to  call  him  a  drunken 
scoundrel  to  his  face.  How,  when  the 
tide  went  down,  a  mad  wife,  whose 
husband  had  been  drowned  twenty 
years  ago,  pointed  out  something  un- 
der the  pier,  that  the  rest  took  for 
sea-weed  floating,  —  how  it  was  the 
hair  of  h§r  man's  head,  washed  about 
by  the  water,  and  he  was  there, 
drowned  without  a  cry  or  a  struggle, 
by  his  enormous  boots,  that  kept  him 
in  an  upright  position,  though  he  was 
dead ;  there  he  stood,  —  dead,  — 
drowned  by  slipping  from  the  slippery 
pier,  close  to  his  comrades'  hands,  in 
a  dark  and  gusty  night ;  how  her 
daughter  married,  and  was  well  to  do, 
and  assisted  her  ;  how  she  fell  into  a 
rapid  decline,  and  died,  a  picture  of 
health  to  inexperienced  eyes.  How 
she,  the  mother,  saw  and  knew,  and 
watched  the  treacherous  advance  of 
disease  and  death ;  how  others  said 
gayly,  "  Her  daughter  was  better," 
and  she  was  obliged  tq.  say,  "Yes." 
How  she  had  worked,  eighteen  hours 
a  day,  at  making  nets  ;  how,  when 
she  let  out  her  nets  to  the  other  men  at 
the  herring  fishing,  they  always  cheat- 
ed her,  because  her  man  was  gone. 
How  she  had  many  times  had  to 
choose  between  begging  her  meal  and 
going  to  bed  without  it,  but,  thank 
Heaven !  she  had  always  chosen  the 
latter. 

She  told  him  of  hunger,  cold,  and 
anguish.  As  she  spoke  they  became 
real  things  to  him ;  up  to  -that  mo- 
ment they  had  been  tilings  in  a  story- 
book. And  as  she  spoke  she  rocked 
herself  from  side  to  side. 

Indeed,  she  was  a  woman  "ac- 
quainted with  grief."  She  might 
have  said,  "  Here  I  and  sorrow  sit  I 


114 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTONE. 


This  is  my  throne,  bid  kings  come 
and  bow  to  it ! " 

Her  hearer  felt  this,  and  therefore 
this  woman,  poor,  old,  and  ugly,  be- 
came sacred  in  his  eye  ;  it  was  with,  a 
strange  sort  of  respect  that  he  tried  to 
console  her. 

He  spoke  to  her  in  tones  gentle  and 
sweet  as  the  south  wind  on  a  summer 
evening. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  "  let  me  be  so 
happy  as  to  bring  you  some  comfort. 
The  sorrows  of  the  heart  I  cannot 
heal ;  they  are  for  a  mightier  hand  ; 
but  a  part  of  your  distress  appears  to 
hare  been  positive  need  ;  that  we  can 
at  least  dispose  of,  and  I  entreat  you 
to  believe  that  from  this  hour  want 
shall  never  enter  that  door  again. 
Never !  upon  my  honor !  " 

The  Scotch  are  icebergs,  with  vol- 
canoes underneath ;  thaw  the  Scotch 
ice,  which  is  very  cold,  and  you  shall 
get  to  the  Scotch  fire,  warmer  than 
any  sun  of  Italy  or  Spain. 

His  Lordship  had  risen  to  go.  The 
old  wife  had  seemed  absorbed  in  her 
own  grief;  she  now  dried  her  tears. 

"  Bide  ye,  sirr,"  said  she,  "  till  I 
thank  ye. 

So  she  began  to  thank  him,  rather 
coldly  and  stiffly. 

"  He  says  ye  are  a  lord,"  said  she ; 
"  I  dinna  ken,  an'  I  dinna  care  ;  but 

S!  're  a  gentleman,  I  daur  say,  and  a 
nd  heart  ye  hae." 

Then  she  began  to  warm. 

"  And  ye  '11  never  be  a  grain  the 
poorer  for  the  siller  ye  hae  gicn  me  ; 
for  he  that  giveth  to  "the  poor  lendeth 
to  the  Lord." 

Then  she  began  to  glow. 

"But  it's  no  your  siller;  dinna 
think  it,  —  na,  lad,  na  !  O,  fine  !  I 
ken  there  's  mony  a  supper  for  the 
bairns  and  me  in  yon  bits  metal ; 
but  I  canna  feel  your  siller  as  I  feel 
your  winsome  smile,  —  the  drop  in 
your  young  een,  —  an'  the  sweet 
•words  ye  gied  me,  in  the  sweet  music 
o'  your  Soothern  tongue,  Gude  bless 
ye !  "  ( Where  was  her  ice  by  this 
time  ?)  "  Gude  bless  ye !  and  I  bless 
ye!" 


And  she  did  bless  him  ;  and  what  rt 
blessing  it  was  ;  not  a  melodious  gen- 
erality, like  a  stage  parent's,  or  papa's 
in  a  damsel's  novel.  It  was  like  the 
son  of  Barak  on  Zophim. 

She  blessed  him,  as  one  who  had 
the  power  and  the  right  to  bless  or 
curse. 

She  stood  on  the  high  ground  of  her 
low  estate,  and  her  afflictions, — and 
demanded  of  their  Creator  to  bless  the 
fellow-creature  that  had  come  to  her 
aid  and  consolation. 

This  woman  had  suffered  to  the 
limits  of  endurance;  yesterday  she 
had  said,  "  Surely  the  Almighty  does 
na  see  me  a'  these  years  ! " 

So  now  she  blessed  him,  and  her 
heart's  blood  seemed  to  gush  into 
words. 

She  blessed  him  by  land  and  water. 

She  knew  most  mortal  griefs ;  for 
she  had  felt  them. 

She  warned  them  away  from  him 
one  by  one. 

She  knew  the  joys  of  life ;  for  she 
had  felt  their  want. 

She  summoned  them  one  by  one  to 
his  side. 

"And  a  fair  wind  to  your  ship," 
cried  she  :  "an'  the  storms  aye  ten 
miles  to  leeward  o'  her." 

Many  happy  days,  "an'  wecl  spent," 
she  wished  him. 

"  His  love  should  love  him  dearly, 
or  a  better  take  her  place." 

"  Health  to  his  side  by  day  ;  sleep 
to  his  pillow  by  night." 

A  thousand  good  wishes  came,  like 
a  torrent  of  fire,  from  her  lips,  with  a 
power  that  eclipsed  his  dreams  of  hu- 
man eloquence ;  and  then,  changing 
in  a  moment  from  the  thunder  of  a 
Pythoness  to  the  tender  music  of  some 
poetess  mother,  she  ended  :  — 

"  An'  O  my  boenny,  boenny  lad, 
may  ye  be  wi'  the  rich  upon  the  airth 
a'  your  days, — AND  wi'  THE  PUIR 

IK  THE  TVARLD  TO  COME  !  " 

His  Lordship's  tongue  refused  him 
the  thin  phrases  of  society. 

"  Farewell  for  the  present,"  said  he, 
and  he  went  quietly  away. 

He  paced  thoughtfully  home. 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


115 


He  had  drunk  a  fact  with  every  sen- 
tence ;  and  an  idea  with  every  fact. 

For  the  knowledge  we  have  never 
realized  is  not  knowledge  to  us,  —  only 
knowledge's  shadow. 

With  the  banished  Duke,  he  now 
began  to  feel,  "  we  urc  not  alone  un- 
happy " :  this  universal  world  con- 
tnins  other  guess  sorrows  than  yours, 
Viscount,  —  scilicet  than  unvarying 
health,  unbroken  leisure,  and  incalcu- 
lable income. 

Then  this  woman's  eloquence ! 
bless  me  !  he  had  seen  folk  murmur 
politely  in  the  Upper  House,  and 
drone  or  hammer  away  at  the  Speak- 
er down  below,  with  more  heat  than 
warmth. 

He  had  seen  nine  hundred  wild 
beasts  fed  with  peppered  tongue,  in  a 
menagerie  called  L'Assemble'e  Nation- 
ale. 

His  ears  had  rung  often  enough,  for 
that  matter. 

This  time  his  heart  beat. 

He  had  been  in  the  principal  Courts 
of  Europe:  knew  what  a  handful  of 
gentlefolks  call  "  the  World  "  :  had 
experienced  the  honeyed  words  of 
courtiers  ;  the  misty  nothings  of  di- 
plomatists ;  and  the  innocent  prattle 
of  mighty  kings. 

But  hitherto  he"  seemed  to  have 
undergone  gibberish  and  jargon  :  — 

Gibberish  and  jargon  — Political ! 

Gibberish  and  jargon  —  Social ! 

Gibberish  and  jargon  —  Theologi- 
cal ! 

Gibberish  and  jargon  —  Positive  ! 

People  had  been  prating  —  Jess  had 
spoken. 

But,  it  is  to  be  observed,  he  was 
under  the  double  effect  of  eloquence 
and  novelty ;  and,  so  situated,  we 
overrate  things,  you  know. 

That  night  he  made  a  provision  for 
this  poor  woman,  in  case  he  should 
die  before  next  week. 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  said  he,  "  she  is 
sucli  an  unlucky  woman." 

Then  he  went  to  bed,  and  whether 
from  the  widow's  blessing,  or  the  air 
of  the  place,  he  slept  like  a  plough- 
boy. 


Leaving  Richard,  Lord  Ipsdcn,  to 
work  out  the  Aberford  problem,  —  to 
relieve  poor  people,  one  or  two  of 
whom,  like  the  Rutherford,  were  grate- 
ful, the  rest  acted  it  to  the  life,  —  to 
receive  now  and  then  a  visit  from 
Christina  Johnstonc,  who  borrowed 
every  mortal  book  in  his  house,  who 
sold  him  fish,  invariably  cheated  him 
by  the  indelible  force  of  habit,  and 
then  remorsefully  undid  the  bargain, 
with  a  peevish  entreaty  that  "  he  would 
not  be  so  green,  for  there  was  no  do- 
ing business  with  him,"  —  to  be  fas- 
tened upon  by  Flucker,  who,  with 
admirable  smoothness  and  cunning, 
wormed  himself  into  a  cabin-boy  on 
board  the  yacht,  and  man-at-arms 
ashore. 

*  To  cruise  in  search  of  adventures, 
and  meet  nothing  but  disappoint- 
ments ;  to  acquire  a  browner  tint,  a 
lighter  step,  and  a  jacket,  our  story 
moves  for  a  while  towards  humbler 
personages. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

JESS  RUTHERFORD,  widow  of 
Alexander  Johnstone,  for  Newhaven 
wives,  like  great  artists,  change  their 
conditions  without  changing  their 
names,  was  known  in  the  town  only- 
as  a  dour  wife,  a  sour  old  carline. 
Whose  fault  ? 

Do  wooden  faces  and  iron  tongues 
tempt  sorrow  to  put  out  its  snails' 
horns  ? 

She  hardly  spoke  to  any  one,  or 
any  one  to  her,  but  four  days  after  the 
visit  we  have  described  people  began 
to  bend  looks  of  sympathy  on  her,  to 
step  out  of  their  way  to  give  her  a 
kindly  good-morrow  ;  after  a  bit,  fish 
and  meal  used  to  be  placed  on  her 
table  by  one  neighbor  or  another, 
when  she  was  out :  and  so  on.  She 
was  at  first  behind-hand  in  respond- 
ing to  all  this,  but  by  degrees  she 
thawed  to  those  who  were  thawing  to 
her.  Next,  Saunders  called  on  her, 
and  showed  her  a  settlement,  made 
for  her  benefit,  on.  certain  lands  iu 


116 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


Lanarkshire.  She  was  at  ease  for 
life. 

The  Almighty  had  seen  her  all  these 
years. 

But  how  came  her  neighbors  to 
melt? 

Because  a  nobleman  had  visited 
her. 

Not  exactly,  dear  novel-reader. 

This  was  it. 

That  same  night,  by  a  bright  fire 
lighting  up  snowy  walls,  burnished 
copper,  gleaming  candlesticks,  and  a 
dinner-table  floor,  sat  the  mistress  of 
the  house,  Christie  Johnstone,  and 
her  brother,  Flacker. 

She  with  a  book,  he  with  his  reflec- 
tions opposite  her. 

"  Lassie,  hae  ye  ony  siller  past  ye  ?  " 

"Ay,  lad  ;  an'  I  mean  to  keep  it ! v 

The  baddish  boy  had  registered  a 
vow  to  the  contrary,  and  proceeded 
to  bleed  his  flint  (for  to  do  Christie 
justice  the  process  was  not  very  dis- 
similar). Flucker  had  a  versatile 
genius  for  making  money ;  he  had 
made  it  in  forty  different  ways,  by 
land  and  sea,  tenpence  at  a  time. 

"  I  hae  gotten  the  life  o'  Jess  Ruth- 
erford, till  ye,"  said  he. 

"  Giest  then." 

"  I  'm  seeking  half  a  crown  for 't," 
said  he. 

Now,  he  knew  he  should  never  get 
half  a  crown,  but  he  also  knew  that 
if  he  asked  a  shilling,  he  should  be 
beaten  down  to  fourpence. 

So  half  a  crown  was  his  first  bode. 

The  enemy,  with  anger  at  her 
heart,  called  up  a  humorous  smile, 
and  saying,  "  An  ye  '11  get  saxpence," 
went  about  some  household  matter ; 
in  reality,  to  let  her  proposal  rankle 
in  Flucker. 

Thicker  lighted  his  pipe  slowly,  as 
one  who  would  not  do  a  sister  the 
injustice  to  notice  so  trivial  a  propo- 
sition. 

He  waited  fresh  overtures. 

They  did  not  come. 

Christie  resumed  her  book. 

Then  the  baddish  boy  fixed  his  eye 
on  the  fire,  and  said  softly  and  thought- 
fully to  the  fire,  "  HeclS,  what  a  heap 


o'  troubles  yon  woman  has  come 
through." 

This  stroke  of  art  was  not  lost. 
Christie  looked  up  from  her  book ; 
pretended  he  had  spoken  to  her,  gave 
a  fictitious  yawn,  and  renewed  the  ne- 
gotiation with  the  air  of  one  disposed 
to  kill  time. 

She  was  dying  for  the  story. 

Commerce  was  twice  broken  off  and 
renewed  by  each  power  in  turn. 

At  last  the  bargain  was  struck  at 
fourteen-pence. 

Then  Flucker  came  out,  the  honest 
merchant. 

He  had  listened  intently,  with  mer- 
cantile views. 

He  had  the  widow's  sorrows  all  off 
pat. 

He  was  not  a  bit  affected  himself, 
but  by  pure  memory  he  remembered 
where  she  had  been  most  agitated  or 
overcome. 

He  gave  it  Christie,  word  for  word, 
and  even  threw  in  what  dramatists 
call  "  the  business,"  thus  :  — 

"Here  ye  sulJ  greet —  " 

"  Here  ye  '11  play  your  hand  like  a 
geraffe." 

"  Geraffe  ?  That 's  a  beast,  I  'm 
thinking." 

"  Na ;  it 's  the  thing  on  the  hill  that 
makes  signals."  • 

"  Telegraph,  ye  fulish  goloshen  !  " 

"  Oo  ay,  telegraph !  Geraffe  's  sun- 
est  said  for  a'." 

Thus  Jess  Rutherford's  life  came 
into  Christie  Johnstone's  hands. 

She  told  it  to  a  knot  of  natives  next 
day ;  it  lost  nothing,  for  she  was  a 
woman  of  feeling,  and  by  intuition  an 
artist  of  the  tongue.  She  was  the 
best  raconteur  in  a  place  where  there 
are  a  hundred,  male  and  female,  who 
attempt  that  art. 

The  next  day  she  told  it  again,  and 
then  inferior  narrators  got  hold  of  it, 
and  it  soon  circulated  through  the 
town. 

And  this  was  the  cause  of  the  sud- 
den sympathy  with  Jess  Rutherford. 

As  our  prigs  would  say:  — 

"Art  had  adopted  her  cause  and, 
adorned  her  tale." 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


117 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  fishing  village  of  Newhaven  is 
an  unique  place ;  it  is  a  colony  that 
retains  distinct  features  ;  the  people 
seldom  intermarry  with  their  Scotch 
neighbors. 

Some  say  the  colony  is  Dutch, 
some  Danish,  some  Flemish.  The 
character  and  cleanliness  of  their  fe- 
male costume  points  rather  to  the 
latter. 

Fish,  like  horse-flesh,  corrupts  the 
mind  and  manners. 

After  a  certain  age,  the  Newhaven 
fishwife  is  always  a  blackguard,  and 
ugly ;  but  among  the  younger  speci- 
mens, who  have  not  traded  too  much, 
or  come  into  much  contact  with  larger 
towns,  a  charming  modesty,  or  else 
slyness  (such  as  no  man  can  distin- 
guish from  it,  so  it  answers  every  pur- 
pose), is  to  be  found,  combined  with 
rare  grace  and  beauty. 

It  is  a  race  of  women  that  the  north- 
ern sun  peachifies  instead  of  rosewood- 
izing.  , 

On  Sundays  the  majority  sacrifice 
appearance  to  fashion ;  these  turn 
out  rainbows  of  silk,  satin,  and  lace. 
In  the  week  they  were  all  grace,  and 
no  stays  ;  now  they  seem  all  stays  and 
no  grace.  They  never  look  so  ill  as 
when  they  change  their  "  costume  " 
for  "dress." 

The  men  are  smart  fishermen,  dis- 
tinguished from  the  other  fishermen 
of  the  Firth  chiefly  by  their  "  dredging 
song." 

This  old  song  is  money  to  them; 
thus :  — 

Dredging  is  practically  very  stiff 
rowing  for  ten  hours. 

Now  both  the  Newhaven  men  and 
their  rivals  are  agreed  that  this  song 
lifts  them  through  more  work  than 
untuned  fishermen  can  manage. 

I  have  heard  the  song,  and  seen  the 
work  done  to  it ;  and  incline  to  think 
it  helps  the  oar,  not  only  by  keeping 
the  time  true,  and  the  spirit  alive,  but 
also  by  its  favorable  action  on  the 
lungs.  It  is  sung  in  a  peculiar  way  : 
the  sound  is,  as  it  were,  expelled  from 


the  chest  in  a  sort  of  musical  ejacula- 
tions ;  and  the  like,  we  know,  was 
done  by  the  ancient  gymnasts ;  and 
is  done  by  the  French  bakers,  in  lift- 
ing their  enormous  dough,  and  by  our 
paviors. 

The  song,  in  itself,  does  not  contain 
above  seventy  stock  verses,  but  these 
perennial  lines  are  a  nucleus,  round 
which  the  men  improvise  the  topics  of 
the  day,  giving,  I  know  not  for  what 
reason,  the  preference  to  such  as  verge 
upon  indelicacy. 

The  men  and  women  are  musical 
and  narrative ;  three  out  of  four  can 
sing  a  song  or  tell  a  story,  and  they 
omit  few  opportunities. 

Males  and  females  suck  whiskey 
like  milk,  and  are  quarrelsome  in  pro- 
portion :  the  men  fight  (round-hand- 
ed), the  women  fleicht  or  scold,  in  the 
form  of  a  teapot,  —  the  handle  fixed 
and  the  spout  sawing  the  air. 

A  singular  custom  prevails  here. 

The  maidens  have  only  one  sweet- 
heart apiece ! ! ! 

So  the  whole  town  is  in  pairs. 

The  courting  is  all  done  on  Satur- 
day night,  by  the  lady's  fire.  It  is 
hard  to  keep  out  of  a  groove  in  which 
all  the  town  is  running ;  and  the 
Johnstone  had  possessed,  as  mere 
property,  —  a  lad  ! 

She  was  so  wealthy  that  few  of 
them  could  pretend  to  aspire  to  her, 
so  she  selected  for  her  chattel  a  young 
man  called  Willy  Liston  ;  a  youth  of 
an  unhappy  turn,  —  he  contributed 
nothing  to  hilarity,  his  face  was  a  kill- 
joy, —  nobody  liked  him ;  for  this  fe- 
male reason  Christie  distinguished 
him. 

He  found  a  divine  supper  every 
Saturday  night  in  her  house ;  he  ate, 
and  sighed !  Christie  fed  him,  and 
laughed  at  him. 

Flucker  ditto. 

As  she  neither  fed  nor  laughed  at 
any  other  man,  some  twenty  were 
bitterly  jealous  of  Willy  Liston,  and 
this  gave  the  blighted  youth  a  cheer- 
ful moment  or  two. 

But  the  bright  alliance  received  a 
check  some  months  before  our  tale. 


118 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


Christie  was  hcluo  librorum  '.  and 
like  others  who  have  that  taste,  and 
can  only  gratify  it  in  the  interval  of 
manual  exercise,  she  read  very  in- 
tensely in  her  hours  of  study.  A 
book  absorbed  her.  She  was  like  a 
leech  on  these  occasions,  non  missura 
cutem :  even  Jean  Carnie,  her  coadju- 
tor or  "  necbor,"  as  they  call  it,  found 
it  best  to  keep  out  of  her  way  till  the 
book  was  sucked. 

One  Saturday  night  Willy  Liston's 
evil  star  ordained  that  a  gentleman 
of  French  origin  and  Spanish  dress, 
called  Gil  Bias,  should  be  the  John- 
stone's  companion. 

Willy  Liston  arrived. 

Christie,  who  had  bolted  the  door, 
told  him  from  the  window,  civilly 
enough,  but  decidedly,  "  She  would 
excuse  his  company  that  night." 

"  Vara  weel,"  said  Willy,  and  de- 
parted. 

Next  Saturday,  —  no  Willy  came. 

Ditto  the  next.  Willy  was  wait- 
ing the  amende. 

Christie  forgot  to  make  it 

One  day  she  was  passing  the  boats, 
Willy  beckoned  her  mysteriously ; 
he  led  her  to  his  boat,  which  was 
called  "  The  Christie  Johnstone  "  ; 
by  the  boat's  side  was  a  paint  pot  and  i 
brush. 

They  had  not  supped  together  for 
five  Saturdays. 

Ergo,  Mr.  Liston  had  painted  out 
the  four  first  letters  of  "Christie,"  he 
now  proceeded  to  paint  out  the  fifth" 
giving  her  to  understand,  that,  if  she 
allowed  the  whole  name  to  go,  a  letter 
every  blank  Saturday,  her  image  would 
be  gradually,  but  effectually,  obliter- 
ated from  the  heart  Listonian. 

My  reader  has  done  what  Liston 
did  not,  anticipate  her  answer.     She 
recommended  him,   whilst  his  hand  j 
was  in,  to  paint  out  the  entire  name, 
and,  with  white  paint  and  a  smaller 
brash,  to  substitute  some  other  female 
appellation.     So  saying,   she  tripped  I 
off. 

Mr.  Liston  on  this  was  guilty  of 
the  following  inconsistency ;  he 
pressed  the  paint  carefully  out  of  the 


brush  into  the  pot :  having  thus  econ- 

j  omized  his  material,  he  hurled  the  pot 

which  contained  his  economy  at  "  tie 

I  Johnstone,"  he  then  adjourned  to  the 

j  "  Peacock,"  and  "  away  at  once  with 

love  and  reason." 

Thenceforth,  when  men  asked  who 
was  Christie  Johnstone's  lad,  the  an- 
swer used  to  be,  "  She  's  seeking  ane." 
Qttette  Jiotreur .' ! 

Newhaven  does  n't  know  every- 
thing, but  my  intelligent  reader  sus- 
pects, and,  if  confirming  his  suspicions 
can  reconcile  him  to  our  facts,  it  will 
soon  be  done. 

But  he  must  come  with  us  to  Edin- 
burgh ;  it 's  only  three  miles. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  LITTLE  band  of  painters  came 
into  Edinburgh  from  a  professional 
walk.  Three  were  of  Edinburgh  : 
Groove,  aged  fifty ;  Jones  and  Hya- 
cinth, young ;  the  latter  long-haired. 

With  them  was  a  young  English- 
man, the  leader  of  the  expedition,  — 
Charles  Gatty. 

His  step  was  elastic,  and  his  man- 
ner wonderfully  animated,  without 
loudness. 

"  A  bright  day,"  said  he.  "  The 
sun  forgot  where  he  was,  and  shone  ; 
everything  was  in  favor  of  art." 

"  O  dear,  no,"  replied  old  Groove, 
"  not  where  I  was." 

"  Why,  what  was  the  matter  ?  " 

"  The  flies  kept  buzzing  and  biting, 
and  sticking  in  the  work  :  that 's  the 
worst  of  out  o'  doors  !  " 

"  The  flies  !  is  that  all  ?  Swear  the 
spiders  in  special  constables  next 
time,"  cried  Gatty.  "  'We  shall  win 
the  day  " ;  and  light  shone  into  his 
hazel  eye. 

"  The  world  will  not  always  put  up 
with  the  humbugs  of  the  brush,  who, 
to  imitate  Nature,  turn  their  back  on 
her.  Paint  an  out  o'  door  scene  in 
doors  !  I  swear  by  the  sun  it 's  a  lie  ! 
the  one  stupid,  impudent  lie,  that 
glitters  amongst  the  lies  of  vulgar  art, 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTONE, 


119 


like  Satan  amongst  Belial,  Mammon, 
and  all  those  beggars. 

"  Now  look  here ;  the  barren  out- 
lines of  a  scene  must  be  looked  at,  to 
be  done  ;  hence  the  sketching  system 
slop-sellers  of  the  Academy  !  but  the 
million  .delicacies  of  light,  shade,  and 
color,  can  be  trusted  to  memory,  can 
they I 

"  It 's  a  lie  big  enough  to  shake  the 
earth  out  of  her  course  ;  if  any  part  of 
the  work  could  be  trusted  to  memory 
or  imagination,  it  happens  to  be  the 
bare  outlines,  and  they  can't.  The 
'  million  subtleties  of  light  and  color; 
learn  them  by  heart,  and  say  them  off 
on  canvas  !  the  highest  angel  in  the 
sky  must  have  his  eye  upon  them,  and 
look  devilish  sharp,  too,  or  he  sha'  n't 
paint  them  :  I  give  him  Charles  Gat- 
ty's word  for  that." 

"  That 's  very  eloquent,  I  call  it," 
said  Jones. 

"  Yes,"  said  poor  old  Groove,  "  the 
lad  will  never  make  a  painter." 

"  Yes,  I  shall,  Groove  ;  at  least  I 
hope  so,  but  it  must  be  a  long  time 
first." 

"  I  never  knew  a  painter  who  could 
talk  and  paint  both,"  explained  Mr. 
Groove. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Gatty.  •"  Then 
I  '11  say  but  one  word  more,  and  it  is 
this.  The  artifice  of  painting  is  old 
enough  to  die  ;  it  is  time  the  art  was 
born.  Whenever  it  does  come  into 
the  world,  you  will  see  no  more  dead 
corpses  of  trees,  grass,  and  water, 
robbed  of  their  life,  the  sunlight,  and 
flung  upon  canvas  in  a  studio,  by  the 
light  of  a  cigar,  and  a  lie  —  and — " 

"  How  much  do  you  expect  for  your 
picture  ?  "  interrupted  Jones. 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ? 
With  these  little  swords  "  (waving  his 
brush),  "we'll  fight  for  nature-light, 
truth-light,  and  sunlight,  against  a 
world  in  arms,  —  no,  worse,  in  swad- 
dling clothes." 

"  With  these  little  swerrds,"  replied 
poor  old  Groove,  "  we  shall  cut  our 
own  throats  if  we  go  against  people's 
prejudices." 

The  young  artist  laughed  the  old 


daubster  a  merry  defiance,  and  then 
separated  from  the  party,  for  his  lodg- 
ings were  down  the  street. 

He  had  not  left  them  long,  before  a 
most  musical  voice  was  heard,  cry- 
ing:— 

"  A  caallerr  owoo  !  " 

And  two  young  fishwives  hove  ia 
sight. 

The  boys  recognized  one  of  them  as 
Gatty's  sweetheart. 

"  Is  he  in  love  with  her  ?  "  inquired 
Jones. 

Hyacinth  the  long-haired  undertook 
to  reply. 

"  He  loves  her  better  than  anything 
in  the  world,  except  Art.  Love  and 
Art  are  two  beautiful  things,"  whined 
Hyacinth. 

"  She,  too,  is  beautiful.  I  have 
done  her,"  added  he,  with  a  simper. 

"  In  oil  ?  "  asked  Groove. 

"  In  oil  ?  no,  in  verse,  here  "  ;  and 
he  took  out  a  paper. 

"  Then  had  n't  we  better  cut  ?  you 
might  propose  reading  them,"  said 
poor  old  Groove. 

"  Have  you  any  oysters  ?  "  inquired 
Jones  of  the  Carnie  and  the  John- 
stone,  who  were  now  alongside. 

"  Plenty,"  answered  Jean.  "  Hae 
ye  ony  siller  ?  " 

The  artists  looked  at  one  another, 
and  did  n't  all  speak  at  once. 

"  I,  madam,"  said  old  Groove,  in- 
sinuatingly, to  Christie,  "  am  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Gatty's ;  perhaps,  on  that  ac- 
count, you  would  lend  me  an  oyster  or 
two." 

"  Na,"  said  Jean,  sternly. 

"  Hyacinth,"  said  Jones,  sarcastical- 
ly >  "  S've  them  your  verses,  perhaps 
that  will  soften  them." 

Hyacinth  gave  his  verses,  descrip- 
tive of  herself,  to  Christie. 

This  youngster  was  one  of  those 
who  mind  other  people's  business. 

Alienis  studiis  ddectatus  contempsit 
suum. 

His  destiny  was  to  be  a  bad  painter, 
so  he  wanted  to  be  an  execrable 
poet. 

All  this  morning  he  had  been  dog- 
grelling,  when  he  ought  to  have  been 


120 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOSE. 


.daubing;  and  now  he  will  have  to 
sup  off  a  colored  print,  if  he  sups  at 
all. 

Christie  read,  blushed,  and  put  the 
verses  in  her  bosom. 

"  Come  awa,  Gusty,"  said  Jean. 

"  Hets,"  said  Christie,  "  gie  the 
puir  lads  twarree  oysters,  what  the 
waur  will  we  be  1 " 

So  they  opened  oysters  for  them ; 
and  Hyacinth  the  long-haired  looked 
down  on  the  others  wjth  sarcastico- 
benignant  superiority.  He  had  con- 
ducted a  sister  art  to  the  aid  of  his 
brother  brushes. 

"  The  poet's  empire,  all  our  hearts  allow  ; 
But  doggrel's  power  was  never  known  till 
now." 


CHAPTER    VII. 

AT  the  commencement  of  the  last 
chapter,  Charles  Gatty,  artist,  was 
going  to  usher  in  a  new  state  of  things, 
true  art,  etc.  Wales  was  to  be  paint- 
ed in  Wales,  not  Poland  Street. 

He  and  five  or  six  more  youngsters 
were  to  be  in  the  foremost  files  of 
truth,  and  take  the  world  by  storm! 

This  was  at  two  o'clock  ;  it  is  now 
five  ;  whereupon  the  posture  of  affairs, 
the  prospects  of  art,  the  face  of  the 
world,  the  nature  of  things,  are  quite 
the  reverse. 

In  the  artist's  room,  on  the  floor, 
was  a  small  child,  whose  movements, 
and  they  were  many,  were  viewed 
with  huge  dissatisfaction  by  Charles 
Gatty,  Esq.  This  personage,  pencil 
in  hand,  sat  slouching  and  morose, 
looking  gloomily  at  his  intractable 
model. 

Things  were  going  on  very  badly  ; 
he  had  been  waiting  two  hours  for  an 
infantine  pose  as  common  as  dirt,  and 
the  little  viper  would  die  first. 

Out  of  doors  everything  was  noth- 
ing, for  the  sun  was  obscured,  and  to 
all  appearance  extinguished  forever. 

"  Ah  !  Mr.  Groove,"  cried  he,  to 
that  worthy,  who  peeped  in  at  that 
moment ;  "  you  are  right,  it  is  better 


to  plough  away  upon  canvas  blind- 
fold, as  our  grandfathers  —  no,  grand- 
mothers—  used,  than  to  kill  ourselves 
toiling  after  such  coy  ladies  as  Nature 
and  Truth." 

"  Aweel,  I  dinna  ken,  sirr,"  replied 
Groove,  in  smooth  tones.  "I  didna 
like  to  express  my  warm  approbation 
of  you  before  the  lads,  for  fear  of  mak- 
ing them  jealous." 

"They  be—    No!" 

"  I  ken  what  ye  wad  say,  sirr,  an  it 
wad  hae  been  a  vara  just  an'  sprightly 
observaation.  Aweel,  between  oursels, 
I  look  upon  ye  as  a  young  gentleman 
of  amazing  talent  and  moedesty.  Man, 
ye  dinna  do  yoursel  justice  ;  ye  should 
be  in  th'  Academy,  at  the  hede  o'  't." 

"  Mr.  Groove,  I  am  a  poor  fainting 
pilgrim  on  the  road,  where  stronger 
spirits  have  marched  erect  before  me." 

"  A  faintin'  pelgrim  !  Deil  a  frights 
o'  ye,  ye  're  a  brisk  and  bonny  lad. 
Ah,  sirr,  in  my  juvenile  days,  we 
didna  fash  wi  nature,  and  truth,  an 
the  like." 

"The  like!  What  is  like  nature 
and  truth,  except  themselves  ?  " 

"  Vara  true,  sirr ;  vara  true,  and 
sae  I  doot  I  will  never  attain  the 
height  o'  profeeciency  ye  hae  reached. 
An'  at  this  vara  moment,  sir,"  contin- 
ued Groove,  with  delicious  solemnity 
and  mystery,  "  ye  see  before  ye,  sir, 
a  man  wha  is  in  maist  dismal  want  — 
o'  ten  shellen !  "  (A  pause.)  "If 
your  superior  talent  has  put  ye  in  pos- 
session of  that  sum,  ye  would  obleege 
me  infinitely  by  a  temporary  accom- 
modaation,  Mr.  Gaattie." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  the 
point  at  once  ?  "  cried  Gatty,  brusque- 
ly, "instead  of  humbling  me  with  un- 
deserved praise.  There."  Groove 
held  out  his  hand,  but  made  a  wry 
face  when,  instead  of  money,  Gatty 
put  a  sketch  into  his  hand. 

"  There,"  said  Gatty,  "  that  is  a 
lie ! " 

"  How  can  it  be  a  lee  ?  "  said  the 
other,  with  sour  inadvertence.  "  How 
ran  it  be  a  lee,  when  I  hae  na  spo- 
ken ?  " 

"  You  don't  understand  me.     That 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


121 


sketch  is  a  libel  on  a  poor  cow  and  an 
unfortunate  oak-tree.  I  did  them  at 
the  Academy.  They  had  never  done 
me  any  wrong,  poor  things  ;  they  suf- 
fered unjustly.  You  take  them  to  a 
shop,  swear  they  are  a  tree  and  a  cow, 
and  some  fool,  that  never  really  looked 
into  a  cow  or  a  tree,  will  give  you  ten 
shillings  for  them." 

"  Are  ye  sure,  lad  ?  " 

"I  am  sure.  Mr.  Groove,  sir,  if 
you  cannot  sell  a  lie  for  ten  shillings, 
you  are  not  fit  to  live  in  this  world  ; 
where  is  the  lie  that  will  not  sell  for 
ten  shillings  1  " 

"  I  shall  think  the  better  o'  lees  all 
my  days ;  sir,  your  words  are  in- 
speeriting."  And  away  went  Groove 
with  the  sketch. 

Gatty  reflected,  and  stopped  him. 

"  On  second  thoughts,  Groove,  you 
must  not  ask  ten  shillings  ;  you  must 
ask  twenty  pounds  for  that  rubbish." 

"  Twenty  pund  !  What  for  will  I 
seek  twenty  pund  ?  " 

"  Simply  because  people  that  would 
not  give  you  ten  shillings  for  it  will 
offer  you  eleven  pounds  for  it  if  you 
ask  twenty  pounds." 

"  The  fules,"  roared  Groove. 
"  Twenty  pund  !  hem  !  "  He  looked 
closer  into  it.  "  For  a',"  said  he,  "  I 
begin  to  obsairve  it  is  a  work  of  great 
merit.  I'll  seek  twenty  pund  an' 
I  '11  no  tak  less  than  fifteen  schelln,  at 
present." 

The  visit  of  this  routine  painter  did 
not  cheer  our  artist. 

The  small  child  got  a  coal,  and 
pounded  the  floor  with  it,  like  a  ma- 
chine incapable  of  fatigue.  So  the 
wished-for  pose  seemed  more  remote 
than  ever. 

The  day  waxed  darker,  instead  of 
lighter;  Mr.  Gatty's  reflections  took 
also  a  still  more  sombre  hue. 

"  Even  Nature  spites  us,"  thought 
he,  "  because  we  love  her. 

"  Then  cant,  tradition,  numbers, 
slang,  and  money  are  against  us  ;  the 
least  of  these  is  singly  a  match  for 
truth ;  we  shall  die  of  despair  or  paint 
cobwebs  in  Bedlam ;  and  I  am  faint, 
weary  of  a  hopeless  struggle;  and 
6 


one  man's  brush  is  truer  than  mine, 
another's  is  bolder,  —  my  hand  and 
eye  are  not  in  tune.  Ah  !  no  !  I  shall 
never,  never,  never  be  a  painter." 

These  last  words  broke  audibly  from 
him  as  his  head  went  down  almost  to 
his  knees. 

A  hand  was  placed  on  his  shoulder 
as  a  flake  of  snow  falls  on  the  water. 
It  was  Christie  Johnstone,  radiant, 
who  had  glided  in  unobserved. 

"  What 's  wrang  wi'  ye,  my  lad  ?  " 

"  The  sun  is  gone  to  the  Devil,  for 
one  thing." 

"  Hcch !  hech  !  ye  '11  no  be  long 
ahint  him  ;  div  ye  no  think  shame." 

"  And  I  want  that  little  brute  just 
to  do  so,  and  he  'd  die  first." 

"  O,  ye  villain,  to  ca'  a  bairn  a 
brute  ;  there  's  but  ae  brute  here,  an' 
it's  no  you,  Jamie,  nor  me,  —  is  it, 
my  lamb  ?  " 

She  then  stepped  to  the  window. 

"  It 's  clear  to  windward  ;  in  ten 
minutes  ye '11  hae  plenty  sun.  Tak 
your  tools  noo."  And  at  the  word 
she  knelt  on  the  floor,  whipped  out  a 
paper  of  sugar-plums,  and  said  to 
him  she  had  christened  "  Jamie  "  : 
"  Heh  !  Here  's  sweeties  till  ye." 
Out  went  Jamie's  arms,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  machine  and  she  had  pulled 
the  right  string. 

"  Ah,  that  will  do,"  said  Gatty,  and 
sketched  away. 

Unfortunately  Jamie  was  quickly 
arrested  on  the  way  to  immortality  by 
his  mother,  who  came  in,  saying  :  — 

"  I  maun  hae  my  bairn,  —  he  canna 
be  aye  wasting  his  time  here." 

This  sally  awakened  the  satire  that 
ever  lies  ready  in  piscatory  bosoms. 

"  Wasting  his  time  !  ye  're  no  blate. 
O,  ye '11  be  for  taking  him  to  the 
college  to  laern  pheesick,  —  and  teach 
maenners." 

"  Ye  need  na  begin  on  me,"  said  the 
woman,  "I'm  no  match  for  New- 
haven." 

So  saying  she  cut  short  the  dispute 
by  carrying  off  the  gristle  of  conten- 
tion. 

"  Another  enemy  to  art,"  said  Gat- 
ty, hurling  away  his  pencil. 


122 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


The  young  fishwife  inquired  if  there 
were  any  more  griefs  ;  what  she  had 
heard  had  not  accounted,  to  her  rea- 
son, for  her  companion's  depression. 

"  Are  ye  sick,  laddy  ? "  said  she. 

"No,  Christie,  not  sick,  but  quite, 
quite  down  in  the  mouth." 

She  scanned  him  thirty  seconds. 

"  What  had  ye  till  your  dinner  1  " 

"  I  forget."  ' 

"  A  choep,  likely  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  was." 

"  Or  maybe  it  was  a  steak  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  it  was  a  steak." 

"  Taste  my  girdle  cake,  that  I  've 
brought  for  ye." 

She  gave  him  a  piece ;  he  ate  it 
rapidly,  and  looked  gratefully  at  her. 

"  Noo,  div  ye  no  think  shame  to 
look  me  in  the  face  ?  Ye  hae  na 
dined  ava."  And  she  wore  an  in- 
jured look. 

"  Sit  ye  there ;  it 's  ower  late  for 
dinner,  bnt  ye  Ml  get  a  cup  tea :  doon 
i'  the  mooth,  nae  wonder,  when  nac- 
thing  gangs  doon  your  —  " 

In  a  minute  she  placed  a  tea-tray, 
and  ran  into  the  kitchen  with  a  tea- 
pot. 

The  next  moment  a  yell  was  heard, 
and  she  returned  laughing,  with  an- 
other teapot. 

"  The  wife  had  maskit  her  tea  till 
hersel',"  said  this  lawless  forager. 

Tea  and  cake  on  the  table,  —  beau- 
ty seated  by  his  side,  —  all  in  less  than 
a  minute. 

He  offered  her  a  piece  of  cake. 

"  Na  !  I  am  no  for  any." 

"  Nor  I  then,"  said  he. 

"  Hets  !  eat,  I  tell  ye." 

He  replied  by  putting  a  bit  to  her 
heavenly  mouth. 

"  Ye  're  awfu'  opinionated,"  said 
she,  with  a  countenance  that  said  noth- 
ing should  induce  her,  and  eating  it 
almost  contemporaneously. 

"  Put  plenty  sugar,"  added  she, 
referring  to  the  Chinese  infusion ; 
"  mind,  I  hae  a  sweet  tooth." 

"  You  have  a  sweet  set,"  said  he, 
approaching  another  morsel. 

They  showed  themselves  by  way  of 
smile,  and  confirmed  the  accusation. 


"Aha!  lad,"  answered  she; "  they've 
been  the  death  o'  mony  a  herrin" !  " 

"  Now,  what  does  that  mean  in 
English,  Christie  1 " 

"  My  grinders —  (a  full  stop.) 

"Which  you  approve — (a  full  stop.) 

"Have  been  fatal —  (a  full  stop.) 

"  To  many  h'shes  !  " 

Christie  prided  herself  on  her  Eng- 
lish, which  she  hud  culled  from  books. 

Then  he  made  her  drink  from  the 
cup,  and  was  ostentatious  in  putting 
his  lips  to  the  same  part  of  the  brim. 

Then  she  left  the  table,  and  in- 
spected all  things. 

She  came  to  his  drawers,  opened 
one,  and  was  horror-struck. 

There  were  coats  and  trousers,  with 
their  limbs  interchangeably  inter- 
twined, waistcoats,  shirts,  and  cigars, 
hurled  into  chaos. 

She  instantly  took  the  drawer  bod- 
ily out,  brought  it,  leaned  it  against 
the  tea-table,  pointed  silently  into  it, 
with  an  air  of  majestic  reproach,  and 
awaited  the  result. 

"  I  can  find  whatever  I  want,"  said 
the  unblushing  bachelor,  "  except 
money." 

"  Siller  does  na  bide  wi'  slovens  ! 
hae  ye  often  siccan  a  gale  o'  wind  in 
your  drawer  ? " 

"  Every  day !     Speak  English  !  " 

"  Aweel !  How  do  you  do  ?  f%at  's 
Ennglish !  I  daur  say."  * 

"  Jolly  !  "  cried  he,  with  his  mouth 
full. 

Christie  was  now  folding  up  and 
neatly  arranging  his  clothes. 

"  Will  you  ever,  ever  be  a  painter  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  painter !  I  could  paint 
the  Devil  pea-green  !  " 

"  Dinna  speak  o'  yon  lad,  Chairles, 
it 's  no  canny." 

"  No  !  I  am  going  to  paint  an  an- 
gel ;  the  prettiest,  cleverest  girl  in 
Scotland,  '  The  Snowdrop  of  the 
North.' " 

And  he  dashed  into  his  bedroom  to 
find  a  canvas. 

"  Hech  ! "  reflected  Christie.  "  Thir 
Ennglish  hae  flattering  tongues,  as 
sure  as  Dethe ;  '  The  Snawdrap  o' 
the  Norrth ! ' " 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


123 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

GATTY'S  back  was  hardly  turned 
when  a  visitor  arrived,  and  inquired, 
"  Is  Mr  Gatty  at  home  ?  " 

"  What 's  your  will  wi'  him  ?  "  was 
the  Scottish  reply. 

"  Will  you  give  him  this  ?  " 

"What  est?" 

"Are  you  fond  of  asking  ques- 
tions 1  "  inquired  the  man. 

"  Ay !  and  fules  canna  answer 
them,"  retorted  Christie. 

The  little  document  which  the  man, 
in  retiring,  left  with  Christie  John- 
stone  purported  to  come  from  one 
Victoria,  who  seemed,  at  first  sight, 
disposed  to  show  Charles  Gatty  civili- 
ties. "Victoria  —  to  Charles  Gatty, 
greeting!  (saltitem)."  Christie  was 
much  struck  witli  this  instance  of 
royal  affability ;  she  read  no  further, 
but  began  to  think,  "  Victoree  !  that 's 
the  Queen  hersel.  A  letter  fra  the 
Queen  to  a  painter  lad  !  Picters  will 
rise  i'  the  mairket,  —  it  will  be  an 
order  to  paint  the  bairns.  I  hae 
brought  him  luck  ;  I  am  real  pleased." 
And  on  Gatty 's  return,  canvas  in 
hand,  she  whipped  the  document  be- 
hind her,  and  said  archly,  "  I  hae 
something  for  ye,  a  tecket  fra  a  leddy, 
ye  '11  no  want  siller  fra  this  day." 

"Indeed  ! " 

"  Ay^  indeed,  .fra  a  great  leddy ; 
it 's  vara  gude  o'  me  to  gie  ye  it ;  heh ! 
tak  it." 

He  did  take  it,  looked  stupefied, 
looked  again,  sunk  into  a  chair,  and 
glared  at  it. 

"  Lnddy  ! "  said  Christie. 

"  This  is  a  new  step  on  the  down- 
ward path,"  said  the  poor  painter. 

"  Is  it  no  an  orrder  to  paint  the 
young  prence  ?  "  said  Christie,  faint- 

ty- 

"  No  !  "  almost  shrieked  the  victim. 
"  It 's  a  writ !  I  owe  a  lot  of 
money." 

"  O  Chairles  !  " 

"  See  !  I  borowed  sixty  pounds 
six  months  ago  of  a  friend,  so  now  I 
owe  eighty !  " 

"All  right!"  giggled  the  unfriend- 


ly visitor  at  the  door,  whose  departure 
had  been  more  or  less  fictitious. 

Christie,  by  an  impulse,  not  justi- 
fiable, but  natural,  drew  her  oyster- 
knife  out,  and  this  time  the  man 
really  went  away. 

"  Hairtless  mon  !  "  cried  she, 
"  could  he  no  do  his  ain  dirrty  work, 
and  no  gar  me  gic  the  puir  lad  th' 
action,  and  he  likeit  me  sae  weel !  " 
and  she  began  to  whimper. 

"  And  love  you  more  now,"  said 
he ;  "  don't  you  cry,  dear,  to  add  to 
my  vexation." 

"  Na !  I  '11  no  add  to  your  vexa- 
tion," and  she  gulped  down  her  tears. 

"  Besides,  I  have  pictures  painted 
worth  two  hundred  pounds ;  this  is 
only  for  eighty.  To  be  sure  'you 
can't  sell  them  for  two  hundred  pence 
when  you  want.  So  I  shall  go  to 
jail,  but  they  won't  keep  me  long." 

Then  he  took  a  turn,  and  began  to 
fall  into  the  artistic,  or  true  view  of 
matters,  which,  indeed,  was  never 
long  absent  from  him. 

"  Look  here,  Christie,"  said  he, 
"  I  am  sick  of  conventional  assassins, 
humbugging  models,  with  dirty 
beards,  that  knit  their  brows,  and 
try  to  look  murder  ;  they  never  mur- 
dered so  much  as  a  tom-cat :  I  al- 
ways go  in  for  the  real  thing,  and 
here  I  shall  find  it." 

"  Dinna  gang  in  there,  lad,  for  ony 
favor." 

"  Then  I  shall  find  the  accessories 
of  a  picture  I  have  in  my  head,  — 
chains  with  genuine  rust,  and  ancient 
mouldering  stones,  with  the  stains  of 
time."  His  eye  brightened  at  the 
prospect. 

"  You  among  fiefs,  and  chains,  and 
stanes  !  Ye  '11  break  my  hairt,  laddy, 
ye  '11  no  be  easy  till  you  break  my 
hairt "  :  and  this  time  the  tears  would 
not  be  denied. 

"  I  love  you  for  crying ;  don't 
cry  "  ;  and  he  fished  from  the  chaotic 
drawer  a  cambric  handkerchief,  with 
which  he  dried  her  tears  as  they  fell. 

It  is  my  firm  belief  she  cried  nearly 
twice  as  much  as  she  really  wanted 
to ;  she  contrived  to  make  the  grief 


124 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


hers,  the  sympathy  his.  Suddenly 
she  stopped,  arid  said  :  — 

"  I  'm  daft ;  ye  '11  accept  a  lane  o' 
the  siller  fra  me,  will  ye  no  1  " 

"  No  !  "  said  he.  "  And  where 
could  you  find  eighty  pound  ?  "  ' 

"  Auchty  pund,"  cried  she,  "  it 's 
no  auchty  pund  that  will  ding  Chris- 
tie Johnstone,  laddy.  I  hae  boats 
and  nets  worth  twa  auchtys ;  and  I 
hae  forty  pund  laid  by ;  and  I  hae 
seven  hundred  pund  at  London,  but 
that  I  canna  meddle.  My  feyther  lent 
it  the  King  or  the  Queen,  I  dinna 
justly  mind  ;  she  pays  me  the  interest 
twice  the  year.  Sae  ye  ken  I  could 
na  be  sac  dirty  as  seek  my  siller, 
when  she  pays  me  th'  interest :  to  the 
very  day,  ye  ken.  She's  just  the 
only  one  o'  a'  my  debtors  that 's 
hoenest,  but  never  heed,  ye  '11  no  gang 
to  jail." 

"  I  '11  hold  my  tongue,  and  sacri- 
fice my  pictures,"  thought  Charles. 

"  Cheer  up  !  "  said  Christie,  mis- 
taking the  nature  of  his  thoughts, 
"  for  it  did  na  come  fra  Victoree  her- 
sel'.  It  wad  smell  o'  the  musk,  ye 
ken.  Na,  it 's  just  a  wheen  black- 
guards at  London  that  makes  use  o' 
her  name  to  torment  puir  folk.  Wad 
she  pairsecute  a  puir  lad  1  No  like- 
ly." 

She  then  asked'questions,  some  of 
which  were  embarrassing.  One  thing 
he  could  never  succeed  in  making  her 
understand,  how,  since  it  was  sixty 
pounds  he  borrowed,  it  could  be  eighty 
pounds  he  owed. 

Then  once  more  she  promised  him 
her  protection,  bade  him  be  of  good 
cheer,  and  left  him. 

At  the  door  she  turned,  and  said : 
"  Chairles,  here  's  an  auld  wife  seek- 
ing ye,"  and  vanished. 

These  two  young  people  had  fallen 
acquainted  at  a  Newhaven  wedding. 
Christie,  belonging  to  no  one,  had 
danced  with  him  all  the  night,  they 
had  walked  under  the  stars  to  cool 
themselves,  for  dancing  reels,  with 
heart  and  soul,  is  not  quadrilling. 

Then  he  had  seen  his  beautiful 
partner  in  Edinburgh,  and  made  a 


sketch  of  her,  which  he  gave  her ; 
and  by  and  by  he  used  to  run  down 
to  Newhaven,  and  stroll  up  and  down 
a  certain  green  lane  near  the  town. 

Next,  on  Sunday  evenings,  a  long 
walk  together,  and  then  it  came  to 
visits  at  his  place  now  and  then. 

And  here  Raphael  and  Fornarina 
were  inverted,  our  artist  used  to  work, 
and  Christie  tell  him  stories  the 
while. 

And,  as  her  voice  curled  round  his 
heart,  he  used  to  smile  and  look,  and 
lay  inspired  touches  on  his  subject. 

And  she,  an  artist  of  the  tongue 
(without  knowing  herself  one),  used 
to  make  him  grave,  or  gay,  or  sad,  at 
will,  and  watch  the  effect  of  her  art 
upon  his  countenance  ;  and  a  very 
pretty  art  it  is,  —  the  viva  voce  story- 
teller^, —  and  a  rare  one  amongst  the 
nations  of  Europe. 

Christie  had  not  learned  it  in  a  day ; 
when  she  began,  she  used  to  tell  them 
like  the  other  Newhaven  people,  with 
a  noble  impartiality  of  detail,  weari- 
some to  the  hearer. 

But  latterly  she  had  learned  to  seize 
the  salient  parts  of  a  narrative  ;  her 
voice  had  compass,  and,  like  all  fine 
speakers,  she  travelled  over  a  great 
many  notes  in  speaking ;  her  low 
tones  were  gorgeously  rich,  her  upper 
tones  full  and  sweet ;  all  this,  and  her 
beauty,  made  the  hours  she  gaVe  him 
very  sweet  to  our  poor  artist. 

He  was  wont  to  bask  in  her  music, 
and  tell  her  in  return  how  he  loved 
her,  and  how  happy  they  were  both 
to  be  as  soon  as  he  had  acquired  a 
name,  for  a  name  was  wealth,  he  told 
her.  And  although  Christie  Johnstone 
did  not  let  him  see  how  much  she 
took  all  this  to  heart  and  believed  it, 
it  was  as  sweet  music  to  her  as  her 
own  honeysuckle  breath  to  him. 

She  improved  him. 

He  dropped  cigars,  and  medical 
students,  and  similar  abominations. 

Christie's  cool,  fresh  breath,  as  she 
hung  over  him  while  painting,  sug- 
gested to  him  that  smoking  njight, 
peradvcnture,  be  a  sin  against  nature 
as  well  as  against  cleanliness. 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


125 


And  he  improved  her  ;  she  learned 
from  art  to  look  into  nature  (the  usual 
process  of  mind). 

She  had  noticed  too  little  the  flick- 
ering gold  of  the  leaves  at  evening, 
the  purple  hills,  and  the  shifting  sto- 
ries and  glories  of  the  sky  ;  but  now, 
whatever  she  saw  him  try  to  imitate, 
she  learned  to  examine.  She  was  a 
woman,  and  admired  sunset,  etc.,  for 
this  boy's  sake,  and  her  whole  heart 
expanded  with  a  new  sensation  that 
softened  her  manner  to  all  the  world, 
and  brightened  her  personal  rays. 

This  charming  picture  of  mutual 
affection  had  hitherto  been  admired 
only  by  those  who  figured  in  it. 

But  a  visitor  had  now  arrived  on 
purpose  to  inspect  it,  etc.,  attracted 
by  report. 

A  friend  had  considerately  informed 
Mrs.  Gatty,  the  artist's  mother,  and 
she  had  instantly  started  from  New- 
castle. 

This  was  the  old  lady  Christie  dis- 
covered on  the  stairs. 

Her  sudden  appearance  took  her 
son's  breath  away. 

No  human  event  was  less  likely  than 
that  she  should  be  there,  yet  there  she 
was. 

After  the  first  surprise  and  affection- 
ate greetings,  a  misgiving  crossed  him, 
"  she  must  know  about  the  writ,"  — 
it  was  impossible  ;  but  our  minds  are 
so  constituted,  —  when  we  are  guilty, 
we  fear  that  others  know  what  we 
know. 

Now  Gatty  was  particularly  anx- 
ious she  should  not  know  about  this 
writ,  for  he  had  incurred  the  debt  by 
acting  against  her  advice. 

Last  year  he  commenced  a  picture 
in  which  was  Durham  Cathedral ;  his 
mother  bade  him  stay  quietly  at  home, 
and  paint  the  cathedral  and  its  banks 
from  a  print,  "  as  any  other  painter 
would,"  observed  she. 

But  this  was  not  the  lad's  system  ; 
he  spent  five  months  on  the  spot,  and 
painted  his  picture,  but  he  had  to  bor- 
row sixty  pounds  to  do  this ;  the  con- 
dition of  this  loan  was,  that  in  six 
months  ho  should  either  pay  eighty 


pounds,  or  finish  and  hand  over  a 
certain  half-finished  picture. 

He  did  neither ;  his  new  subject 
thrust  aside  his  old  one,  and  he  had 
no  monej',  ergo  his  friend,  a  picture- 
dealer,  who  had  found  artists  slippery 
in  money-matters,  followed  him  up 
sharp,  as  we  see. 

"There  is  nothing  the  matter,  I 
hope,  mother.  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  'm  tired,  Charles."  He  brought 
her  a  seat :  she  sat  down. 

"  I  did  not  come  from  Newcastle  at 
my  age,  for  nothing  ;  you  have  formed 
an  improper  acquaintance." 

"  I,  who  ?     Is  it  Jack  Adams  1  " 

"  Worse  than  any  Jack  Adams  ! " 

"  Who  can  that  •  be  ?  Jcnkyns, 
mother,  because  he  docs  the  same 
things  as  Jack,  and  pretends  to  be 
religious." 

"It  is  a  female,  —  a  fishwife.  O 
my  son ! " 

"  Christie  Johnstone  an  improper 
acquaintance,"  said  he  ;  "  why  !  I 
was  good  for  nothing  till  I  knew  her ; 
she  has  made  me  so  good,  moth- 
er ;  so  steady,  so  industrious ;  you 
will  never  have  to  find  fault  with  me 
again." 

"Nonsense:  —  a  woman  that  sells 
fish  in  the  streets  !  " 

"  But  you  have  not  seen  her.  She 
is  beautiful,  her  mind  is  not  in  fish  ; 
her  mind  grasps  the  beautiful  and  the 
good,  —  she  is  a  companion  for  prin- 
ces !  What  am  I  that  she  wastes  a 
thought  or  a  ray  of  music  on  me? 
Heaven  bless  her.  She  reads  our 
best  authors,  and  never  forgets  a 
word  ;  and  she  tells  me  beautiful  sto- 
ries, —  sometimes  they  make  me  cry, 
for  her  voice  is  a  music  that  goes 
straight  to  my  heart." 

"  A  woman  that  does  not  even  wear 
the  clothes  of  a  lady." 

"  It  is  the  only  genuine  costume  in 
these  islands  not  beneath  a  painter's 
notice." 

"  Look  at  me,  Charles ;  at  your 
mother." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  said  he,  nervously. 

"  You  must  part  with  her,  or  kill 
me." 


126 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


He  started  from  his  scat  and  began 
to  flutter  up  and  down  the  room  ; 
pour  excitable  creature.  "  Part  with 
her  ! "  cried  he  ;  "  I  shall  never  be  a 
painter  if  I  do ;  what  is  to  keep  my 
heart  warm  when  the  sun  is  hid,  when 
the  birds  are  silent,  when  difficulty 
looks  a  mountain,  and  success  a  mole- 
hill ?  What  is  an  artist  without  love  ? 
How  is  he  to  bear  up  against  his  dis- 
appointments from  within,  his  morti- 
fication from  wiihout  ?  the  great  ideas 
he  has  and  cannot  grasp,  and  all  the 
forms  of  ignorance  that  sting  him, 
from  stupid  insensibility  down  to  clev- 
er, shallow  criticism  1  " 

"  Come  back  to  common  sense," 
said  the  old  lady,  coldly  and  grimly. 

He  looked  uneasy :  common  sense 
had  often  been  quoted  against  him, 
and  common  sense  had  always  proved 
right. 

"  Come  back  to  common  sense. 
She  shall  not  be  your  mistress,  and 
she  cannot  bear  your  name ;  you 
must  part  some  day,  because  you  can- 
not come  together,  and  now  is  the 
best  time." 

"  Not  be  together  ?  all  our  lives,  all 
our  lives,  ay,"  cried  he,  rising  into 
enthusiasm,  "  hundreds  of  years  to 
come  will  we  two  be  together  before 
men's  eyes,  —  I  will  be  an  immortal 
painter,  that  the  world  and  time  may 
cherish  the  features  I  have  loved.  I  \ 
love  her,  mother,"  added  he,  with  a 
tearful  tenderness  that  ought  to  have 
reached  a  woman's  heart;  then  flush- 
ing, trembling,  and  inspired,  he  burst 
out,  "  And  I  wish  I  was  a  sculptor 
and  a  poet  too,  that  Christie  might 
live  in  stone  and  verse,  as  well  as  col- 
ors, and  all  who  love  an  art  might 
say, '  This  woman  cannot  die,  Charles 
Gatty  loved  her.' " 

•  He  looked  in  her  face  ;  he  could 
not  believe  any  creature  could  be  in- 
sensible to  his  love,  and  persist  to  rob 
him  of  it. 

The  old  woman  paused,  to  let  his 
.eloquence  evaporate. 

The  pause  chilled  him  ;  then  gently 
and  slowly,  but  emphatically,  she 
spcke  to  him  thus :  — 


"  Who  has  kept  you  on  her  small 
j  means  ever  since  you  were  ten  years 
and  seven  months  old  ?  " 

"  You  should  know,  mother,  dear 
mother." 

"  Answer  me,  Charles." 

"  My  mother." 

"  Who  lias  pinched  herself,  in  every 
earthly  thing,  to  make  you  an  immor- 
tal painter,  and,  above  all,  a  gentle- 
man 1  " 

"  My  mother." 

"  Who  forgave  you  the  little  faults 
of  youth,  before  you  could  ask  par- 
don ?  " 

"  My  mother  !  O  mother,  I  ask 
pardon  now  for  all  the  trouble  I  ever 
gave  the  best,  the  dearest,  the  tender- 
est  of  mothers." 

"  Who  will  go  home  to  Newcastle, 
a  broken-hearted  woman,  with  the  one 
hope  gone  that  has  kept  her  up  in 
poverty  and  sorrow  so  many  weary 
years,  if  this  goes  on  ?  " 

"Nobody,  I  hope." 

"  Yes,  Charles  ;  your  mother." 

"  O  mother ;  you  have  been  always 
my  best  friend." 

"  And  am  this  day." 

"  Do  not  be  my  worst  enemy  now : 
it  is  for  me  to  obey  you  ;  but  it  is  for 
you  to  think  well  before  you  drive  me 
to  despair." 

And  the  poor  womanish  heart  leaned 
his  head  on  the  table,  and  began  to 
sorrow  over  his  hard  fate. 

Mrs.  Gatty  soothed  him.  "  It  need 
not  be  done  all  in  a  moment:  it 
must  be  done  kindly,  but  firmly.  I 
will  giveyou  as  much  time  as  you  like." 

This  bait  took :  the  weak  love  to 
temporize. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  he  honestly 
intended  to  part  with  Christie  John- 
stone  ;  but  to  pacify  his  mother  he 
promised  to  begin  and  gradually  un- 
tie the  knot. 

"  My  mother  will  go,"  whispered 
his  deceitful  heart,  "  and,  when  she  is 
away,  perhaps  I  shall  find  out  that  in 
spite  of  every  effort  I  cannot  resign 
my  treasure." 

He  gave  a  sort  of  half-promise  for 
the  sake  of  peace. 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


127 


His  mother  instantly  sent  to  the  inn 
for  her  boxes. 

"There  is  a  room  in  this  same 
house,"  said  she,  "  I  will  take  it ;  I 
will  not  hurry  you,  but  until  it  is 
done,  I  stay  here,  if  it  is  a  twelve- 
month about." 

He  turned  pale. 

"  And  now  hear  the  good  news  I 
have  brought  you  from  Newcastle." 

Oh !  these  little  iron  wills,  how  is  a 
great  artist  to  fight  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  days  against  such  an 
antagonist  ? 

Every  day  saw  a  repetition  of  these 
dialogues,  in  which  genius  made  gal- 
lant bursts  into  the  air,  and  strong, 
hard  sense  caught  him  on  his  descent, 
and  dabbed  glue  on  his  gauzy  wings. 

Old  age  and  youth  see  life  so  differ- 
ently. 

To  youth,  it  is  a  story-book,  in 
which  we  are  to  command  the  inci- 
dents, and  be  the  bright  exceptions  to 
one  rule  after  another. 

To  age  it  is  an  almanac,  in  which 
everything  will  happen  just  as  it  has 
happened  so  many  times. 

To  youth,  it  is  a  path  through  a 
sunny  meadow. 

To  age,  a  hard  turnpike  : 

Whose  travellers  must  be  all  sweat 
and  dust,  when  they  are  not  in  mud 
and  drenched : 

Which  wants  mending  in  many 
places,  and  is  mended  with  sharp 
stones. 

Gatty  would  not  yield  to  go  down 
to  Newhaven,  and  take  a  step  against 
his  love,  but  he  yielded  so  tar  as  to 
remain  passive,  and  see  whether  this 
creature  was  necessary  to  his  exist- 
ence or  not. 

Mrs.  G.  scouted  the  idea. 

"  He  was  to  work,  and  he  would 
soon  forget  her." 

Poor  boy  !  he  wanted  to  work ;  his 
debt  weighed  on  him  ;  a  week's  reso- 
lute labor  might  finish  his  h'rst  picture 
and  satisfy  his  creditor.  The  subject 
was  an  interior.  He  set  to  work,  he 
stuck  to  work,  he  glued  to  work,  his 
body,  —  but  his  heart  ? 

Ah,  my  poor  fellow,  a  much  slower 


horse  than  Gatty  will  go  by  you,  rid- 
den as  you  are  by  a  leaden  heart. 

Tu  nihil  invita  facies  pingesve  Minerva. 

It  would  not  lower  a  mechanical 
dog's  efforts,  but  it  must  yours. 

He  was  unhappy.  He  heard  only 
one  side  for  days ;  that  side  was  rec- 
ommended by  his  duty,  filial  affection, 
and  diffidence  of  his  own  good  sense. 

He  was  brought  to  see  his  proceed- 
ings were  eccentric,  and  that  it  is 
destruction  to  be  eccentric. 

He  was  made  a  little  ashamed  of 
what  he  had  been  proud  of. 

He  was  confused  and  perplexed; 
he  hardly  knew  what  to  think  or  do ; 
he  collapsed,  and  all  his  spirit  was 
fast  leaving  him,  and -then  he  felt  in- 
clined to  lean  on  the  first  thing  he 
could  find,  and  nothing  came  to  hand 
but  his  mother. 

Meantime,  Christie  Johnstone  was 
also  thinking  of  him,  but  her  single 
anxiety  was  to  find  this  eighty  pounds 
for  him. 

It  is  a  Newhaven  idea  that  the  fe- 
male is  the  natural  protector  of  the 
male,  and  this  idea  was  strengthened 
in  her  case. 

She  did  not  fully  comprehend  his 
character  and  temperament,  but  she 
saw,  by  instinct,  that  she  was  to  be 
the  protector. 

Besides,  as  she  was  twenty-one,  and 
he  only  twenty-two,  she  felt  the  dif- 
ference between  herself,  a  woman, 
and  him,  a  boy,  and  to  leave  him  to 
struggle  unaided  out  of  his  difficulties 
seemed  to  her  heartless. 

Twice  she  opened  her  lips  to  engage 
the  charitable  "  Vile  Count "  in  his 
cause,  but  shame  closed  them  again ; 
this  would  be  asking  a  personal  favor, 
and  one  on  so  large  a  scale. 

Several  days  passed  thus  ;  she  had 
determined  not  to  visit  him  without 
good  news. 

She  then  began  to  be  surprised,  she 
heard  nothing  from  him. 

And  now  she  felt  something  that 
prevented  her  calling  on  him. 

But  Jean  Carnie  was  to  be  married, 
and  the  next  day  the  wedding  party 


128 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONS. 


were  to  spend  in  festivity  upon  the 
island  of  Inch  Coombe. 

She  bade  Jean  call  on  him,  and, 
without  mentioning  her,  invite  him  to 
this  party,  from  which,  he  must  know, 
she  would  not  be  absent. 

Jean  Carnie  entered  his  apartment, 
and  at  her  entrance  his  mother,  who 
took  for  granted  this  was  his  sweet- 
heart, whispered  in  his  ear  that  he 
should  now  take  the  first  step,  and 
left  him. 

What  passed  between  Jean  Carnie 
and  Charles  Gatty  is  for  another  chap- 
ter. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  YOUNG  Viscount  with  income 
and  person  cannot  lie  perdu  three 
miles  from  Edinburgh. 

First  one  discovers  him,  then  an- 
other, then  twenty,  then  all  the  world, 
as  the  whole  clique  is  modestly  called. 

Before,  however,  Lord  Ipsden  was 
caught,  he  had  acquired  a  browner 
tint,  a  more  elastic  step,  and  a  stouter 
heart. 

The  Aberford  prescription  had  done 
wonders  for  him. 

He  caught  himself  passing  one 
whole  day  without  thinking  of  Lady 
Barbara  Sinclair. 

But  even  Aberford  had  misled 
him  ;  there  were  no  adventures  to  be 
found  in  the  Firth  of  Forth  ;  most  of 
the  days  there  was  no  wind  to  speak 
of;  twice  it  blew  great  guns,  and  the 
men  were  surprised  at  his  Lordship  go- 
jng  out,  but  nobody  was  in  any  dan- 
ger except  himself ;  the  fishermen  had 
all  slipped  into  port  before  matters 
were  serious. 

He  found  the  merchantmen  that 
could  sail  creeping  on  with  three  reefs 
in  their  mainsail ;  and  the  Dutchmen 
lying  to  and  breasting  it,  like  ducks 
in  a  pond,  and  with  no  more  chance 
of  harm. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  he  did 
observe  a  little  steam-tug,  going 
about  a  knot  an  hour,  and  rolling  like 
a  washing-tub.  He  ran  down  to  her, 


and  asked  if  he  could  assist  her ;  she 
answered  through  the  medium  of  a 
sooty  animal  at  her  helm,  that  she 
was  (like  our  universities)  "satisfied 
with  her  own  progress  "  ;  she  added, 
being  under  intoxication,  "  that,  it'  any 
danger  existed,  her  scheme  was  to 
drown  it  in  the  bo-o-owl  "  ;  and  two 
days  afterwards  he  saw  her  puffing 
and  panting,  and  fiercely  dragging  a 
gigantic  three-decker  out  into  deep 
water,  like  an  industrious  flea  pulling 
his  phaeton. 

And  now  it  is  my  office  to  relate 
how  Mr.  Flucker  Johnstone  comport- 
ed himself  on  one  occasion. 

As  the  yacht  worked  alongside 
Granton  Pier,  before  running  out,  the 
said  Flucker  calmly  and  scientifically 
drew  his  Lordship's  attention  to  three 
points :  — 

The  direction  of  the  wind,  —  the 
force  of  the  wind,  —  and  his  opinion, 
as  a  person  experienced  in  the  Firth, 
that  it  was  going  to  be  worse  instead 
of  better ;  in  reply,  he  received  an  or- 
der to  step  forward  to  his  place  in  tho 
cutter,  — the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
jib-boom.  On  this,  Mr.  Flucker  in- 
stantly burst  into  tears." 

His  Lordship,  or,  as  Flucker  called 
him  ever  since  the  yacht  cauie  down, 
"  the  Skipper,"  deeming  that  the  high- 
er appellation,  inquired,  with  some  sur- 
prise, what  was  the  matter  with  the 
boy. 

One  of  the  crew,  who,  by  the  by, 
squinted,  suggested,  "  It  was  a  slight 
illustration  of  the  passion  of  fear." 

Flucker  confirmed  the  theory  by 
gulping  out :  "  We  '11  never  sec  New- , 
haven  again." 

On  this  the  skipper  smiled,  and  or- 
dered him  ashore,  somewhat  peremp- 
torily. 

Straightway  he  began  to  howl,  and, 
saying,  "  It  was  better  to  be  drowned 
than  be  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
place,"  went  forward  to  his  place  ; 
on  his  safe  return  to  port,  this  young 
gentleman  was  very  severe  on  open 
boats,  which,  he  said  "  bred  woman- 
ish notions  in  hearts  naturally  daunt- 
less. Give  me  a  lid  to  the  pot,"  add- 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


129 


eel  he,  "  and  I  '11  sail  with  Old  Nick, 
let  the  wind  blow  high  or  low." 

The  Aberford  was  wrong  when  he 
called  love  a  cutaneous  disorder. 

There  are  cutaneous  disorders  that 
take  that  name,  but  they  are  no  more 
love  than  verse  is  poetry  ; 

Than  patriotism  is  love  of  country ; 

Than  theology  is  religion ; 

Than  science  is  philosophy ; 

Than  paintings  are  pictures  ; 

Than  reciting  on  the  boards  is  act- 
ing ; 

Than  physic  is  medicine  ; 

Than  bread  is  bread,  or  gold  gold, 
—  in  shops. 

Love  is  a  state  of  being ;  the  be- 
loved object  is  our  centre ;  and  our 
thoughts,  affections,  schemes,  and 
selves  move  but  round  it. 

We  may  diverge  hither  or  thither, 
but  the  golden  thread  still  holds  us. 

Is  fair  or  dark  beauty  the  fairest  ? 
The  world  cannot  decide ;  but  love 
shall  decide  in  a  moment. 

A  halo  surrounds  her  we  love,  and 
makes  beautiful  to  us  her  movements, 
her  looks,  her  virtues,  her  faults,  her 
nonsense,  her  affectation,  and  herself; 
and  that 's  love,  doctor  ! 

Lord  Ipsden  was  capable  of  loving 
like  this  ;  but,  to  do  Lady  Barbara 
justice,  she  had  done  much  to  freeze 
the  germ  of  noble  passion  ;  she  had 
not  killed,  but  she  had  benumbed 
it. 

"  Saunders,"  said  Lord  Ipsden,  one 
morning  after  breakfast,  "  have  you 
entered  everything  in  your  diary  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  Lord." 

"  All  these  good  people's  misfor- 
tunes 1  " 

"  Yes,  my  Lord." 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  spelt  their 
names  right  ?  " 

"  Where  it  was  impossible,  my 
Lord,  I  substituted  an  English  appel- 
lation, hidentical  in  meaning." 

"  Have  you  entered  and  described 
my  first  interview  with  Christie  John- 
stone,  and  somebody  something?  " 

"  Most  minutely,  my  Lord." 

"  How  I  turned  Mr.  Burke  into 
poetrv,  —  how  she  listened  with  her 
6* 


eyes  all  glistening, —  how  they  made 
me  talk,  —  how  she  dropped  a  tear, 
he  !  he  !  he  !  at  the  death  of  the  first 
baron,  —  how  shocked  she  was  at  the 
king  striking  him  when  he  was  dying, 
to  make  a  knight-banneret  of  the  poor 
old  fellow  ? " 

"  Your  Lordship  will  find  all  the 
particulars  exactly  related,"  said 
Saunders,  with  dry  pomp. 

"  How  she  found  out  that  titles  are 
but  breath,  —  how  I  answered  —  some 
nonsense  1 " 

"  Your  Lordship  will  find  all  the 
topics  included." 

"  How  she  took  me  for  a  madman  ? 
And  you  for  a  prig  ?  " 

"  The  latter  circumstance  eluded 
my  memory,  my  Lord." 

"  But  when  I  told  her  T  must  re- 
lieve only  one  poor  person  by  day, 
she  took  my  hand." 

"  Your  Lordship  will  find  all  the 
items  realized  in  this  book,  my  Lord." 

"  What  a  beautiful  book  !  " 

"  Alba  are  considerably  ameliorat- 
ed, my  Lord." 

"Alba?" 

"  Plural  of  album,  my  Lord,"  ex- 
plained the  refined  factotum,  "  more 
delicate,  I  conceive,  than  the  vulgar 
reading." 

Viscount  Ipsden  read  from 

"  MR.  SAUNDERS'S  ALBUM. 

"  To  illustrate  the  inelegance  of  the 
inferior  classes,  two  juvenile  vendors 
of  the  piscatory  tribe  were  this  day 
ushered  in,  and  instantaneously,  with- 
out the  accustomed  preliminaries, 
plunged  into  a  familiar  conversation 
with  Lord  Viscount  Ipsden. 

"  Their  vulgarity,  shocking  and  re- 
pulsive to  myself,  appeared  to  afford 
his  Lordship  a  satisfaction  greater  than 
he  derives  from  the  graceful  ameni- 
ties of  fashionable  association  —  " 

"  Saunders,  I  suspect  you  of  some- 
thing." 

"  Me,  my  Lord  !  " 

"  Yes.     Writing  in  an  Annual." 

"  I  do,  my  Lord,"  said  he,  with  be- 


100 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


nignant  hauteur.  "It  appears  every 
month,  — '  The  Polytechnic.'  " 

"I  thought  so  !  you  are  polysyl- 
labic, Saunders ;  en  route  !  " 

"  In  this  hallucination  I  find  it  dif- 
ficult to  participate ;  associated  from 
infancy  with  the  aristocracy,  I  shrink, 
like  the  sensitive  plant,  from  contact 
with  anything  vulgar." 

"  I  see !  I  begin  to  understand  you, 
Saunders.  Order  the  dog-cart,  and 
Wordsworth's  marc  for  leader  ;  we  '11 
give  her  a  triaL  You  are  an  ass, 
Saunders." 

"  Yes,  my  Lord  ;  I  will  order  Rob- 
ert to  tell  James  to  come  for  your 
Lordship's  commands  about  yourLord- 
ship's  vehicles.  ( What  could  he  intend 
by  a  recent  observation  of  a  discour- 
teous character  ?  ) " 

His  Lordship  soliloquized. 

"I  never  observed  it  before,  but 
Saunders  is  an  ass  !  La  Johnstone  is 
one  of  Nature's  duchesses,  and  she  has 
made  me  know  some  poor  people  that 
will  be  richer  than  the  rich  one  day  ; 
and  she  has  taught  me  that  honey  is  to 
be  got  from  bank-notes,  —  by  merely 
giving  them  away." 

Amongst  the  objects  of  charity  Lord 
Ipsden  discovered  was  one  Thomas 
Harvey,  a  maker  and  player  of  the 
violin.  This  man  was  a  person  of 
great  intellect ;  he  mastered  every 
subject  he  attacked.  By  a  careful  ex- 
amination of  all  the  points  that  vari- 
ous fine-toned  instruments  had  in  com- 
mon, he  had  arrived  at  a  theory  of 
sound  ;  he  made  violins  to  correspond, 
and  was  remarkably  successful  in  in- 
suring that  which  had  been  too  hastily 
ascribed  to  accident,  —  a  fine  tone. 

This  man,  who  was  in  needy  cir- 
cumstances, demonstrated  to  his  Lord- 
ship that  ten  pounds  would  make  his 
fortune ;  because  with  ten  pounds  he 
could  set  up  a  shop,  instead  of  work- 
ing out  of  the  world's  sight  in  a  room. 

Lord  Ipsden  gave  him  ten  pounds  ! 

A  week  after,  he  met  Harvey,  more 
ragged  and  dirty  than  before. 

Harvey  had  been  robbed  by  a  friend 
whom  he  had  assisted.  Poor  Harvey  ! 


Lord  Ipsden  gave  him  ten  pounds 
more  ! 

Next  week,  Sannders,  entering  Har- 
vey's house,  found  him  in  bed  at  noon, 
because  he  had  no  clothes  to  wear. 

Saunders  suggested  that  it  would  be 
better  to  give  his  wife  the  next  money, 
with  strict  orders  to  apply  it  usefully. 

This  was  done ! 

The  next  day,  Harvey,  finding  his 
clothes  upon  a  chair,  his  tools  re- 
deemed from  pawn,  and  a  beefsteak 
ready  for  his  dinner,  accused  his  wife 
of  having  money,  and  meanly  refusing 
him  the  benefit"  of  it.  She  acknowl- 
edged she  had  a  little,  and  appealed 
to  the  improved  state  of  things  as  a 
proof  that  she  knew  better  than  he  the 
use  of  money.  He  demanded  tho 
said  money.  She  refused,  —  he  leath- 
ered her,  —  she  put  him  in  prison. 

This  was  the  best  place  for  him. 
The  man  was  a  drunkard,  and  all  the 
riches  of  Egypt  would  never  have 
made  him  better  off. 

And  here,  gentlemen  of  the  lower 
classes,  a  word  with  you.  How  can 
you,  with  your  small  incomes,  hope 
to  be  well  off,  if  you  are  more  extrava- 
gant than  those  who  have  large  ones  ? 

"  Us  extravagant  ?  "  you  reply. 

Yes  !  your  income  is  ten  shillings 
a  week ;  out  of  that  you  spend  three 
shillings  in  drink  ;  ay  !  you,  the  sober 
ones.  You  can't  afford  it,  my  boys. 
Find  me  a  man  whose  income  is  a 
thousand  a  year ;  well,  if  he  imitates 
you,  and  spends  three  hundred  upon 
sensuality,  I  bet  you  the  odd  seven 
hundred  he  does  not  make  both  ends 
meet;  the  proportion  is  too  great. 
And  two  thirds  of  the  distress  of  the 
lower  orders  is  owing  to  this,  —  that  they 
are  more  madly  prodii/nl  than  the  rich  ; 
in  the  worst,  lowest,  and  most  dangerous 
item  of  all  human  prodigality  ! 

Lord  Ipsden  went  to  see  Mrs.  Har- 
vey ;  it  cost  him  much  to  go ;  she 
lived  in  the  Old  Town,  and  he  hated 
disagreeable  smells  ;  he  also  knew  from 
Saunders  that  she  had  two  black  eyes, 
and  he  hated  women  with  black  eyes 
of  that  sort.  But  this  good  creature 
did  go ;  did  relieve  Mrs.  Harvey ; 


CHRISTIE  JOIINSTONE. 


131 


and  bare-headed  suffered  himself  to  be 
bedewed  ten  minutes  by  her  tearful 
twaddle. 

For  once  Virtue  was  rewarded  : 
returning  over  the  North  Bridge,  he 
met  somebody  whom,  but  for  his 
charity,  he  would  not  have  met. 

He  came  in  one  bright  moment 
plump  upon  —  Lady  Barbara  Sin- 
clair. She  flushed,  he  trembled,  and 
in  two  minutes  he  had  forgotten  ev- 
ery human  event  that  had  passed 
since  he  was  by  her  side. 

She  seemed  pleased  to  see  him, 
too ;  she  ignored  entirely  his  obnox- 
ious proposal ;  he  wisely  took  her 
cue,  and  so,  on  this  secret  understand- 
ing, they  were  friends.  He  made  his 
arrangements,  and  dined  with  her  fam- 
ily. It  was  a  family  party.  In  the 
evening  Lady  Barbara  allowed  it  to 
transpire  that  she  had  made  inquiries 
about  him. 

(He  was  highly  flattered.)  And  she 
had  discovered  he  was  lying  hid  some- 
where in  the  neighborhood. 

"  Studying  the  guitar  ?  "  inquired 
she. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  studying  a  new 
class  of  the  community.  Do  you 
know  any  of  what  they  call  the 
'  lower  classes  '  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Monstrous  agreeable  people,  are 
they  not  1  " 

"  No,  very  stupid  !  I  only  know 
two  old  women,  —  except  the  servants, 
who  have  no  characters.  They  imi- 
tate us,  I  suspect,  which  does  not  say 
much  for  their  taste." 

"  But  some  of  my  friends  are  young 
women ;  that  makes  all  the  difference." 

"  It  does !  and  you  ought  to  be 
ashamed.  If  you  want  a  low  order  of 
mind,  why  desert  our  own  circle  ?  " 

"  My  friends  are  only  low  in  sta- 
tion ;  they  have  rather  lofty  minds, 
some  of  them." 

"  Well,  amuse  yourself  with  these 
lofty  minds.  Amusement  is  the  end 
of  being,  you  know,  and  the  aim  of 
all  the  men  of  this  day." 

"  We  imitate  the  ladies,"  said  he, 
slyly. 


"  You  do,"  answered  she,  very  dry- 
ly ;  and  so  the  dialogue  went  on,  and 
Lord  Ipsden  found  the  pleasure  of 
being  with  his  cousin  compensate  him 
fully  for  the  difference  of  their  opin- 
ions; in  fact,  he  found  it  simply 
amusing  that  so  keen  a  wit  as  his 
cousin's  could  be  entrapped  into  the 
humor  of  decrying  the  time  one  hap- 
pens to  live  in,  and  admiring  any 
epoch  one  knows  next  to  nothing 
about,  and  entrapped  by  the  notion  of 
its  originality,  above  all  things;  the 
idea  being  the  stale  commonplace  of 
asses  in  every  age,  and  the  manner  of 
conveying  the  idea  being  a  mere  imi- 
tation of  the  German  writers,  not  the 
good  ones,  bien  entendu,  but  the  quill- 
drivers,  the  snobs  of  the  Teutonic 
pen. 

But  he  was  to  learn  that  follies  are 
not  always  laughable,  that  eadem  sen- 
tire  is  a  bond,  and  that,  when  a  clever 
and  pretty  woman  chooses  to  be  a 
fool,  her  lover  if  he  is  wise  will  be  a 
greater,  —  if  he  can. 

The  next  time  they  met,  Lord  Ips- 
den found  Lady  Barbara  occupied 
with  a  gentleman  whose  first  sen- 
tence proclaimed  him  a  pupil  of  Mr.' 
Thomas  Carlyle,  and  he  had  the  mor- 
tification to  find  that  she  had  neither 
an  ear  nor  an  eye  for  him. 

Human  opinion  has  so  many  shades, 
that  it  is  rare  to  find  two  people 
agree. 

But  two  people  may  agree  wonder- 
fully, if  they  will  but  let  a  third  think 
for  them  both. 

Thus  it  was  that  these  two  ran  so 
smoothly  in  couples. 

Antiquity,  they  agreed,  was  the 
time  when  the  world  was  old,  its  hair 
gray,  its  head  wise.  Every  one  that 
said,  "  Lord,  Lord  ! "  two  hundred 
years  ago  was  a  Christian.  There 
were  no  earnest  men  now :  Williams, 
the  missionary,  who  lived  and  died 
for  the  Gospel,  was  not  earnest  in  re- 
ligion ;  but  Cromwell,  who  packed  a 
jury,  and  so  murdered  his  prisoner,— 
Cromwell,  in  whose  mouth  was  heav- 
en, and  in  his  heart  temporal  sover- 
eignty,— was  the  pattern  of  earnest 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


religion,  or,  at  all  events,  second  in  j 
sincerity  to  Mahomet  alone,  in  the 
absence  of  details  respecting  Satan,  of , 
whom  we  know  only  that  his  mouth  | 
is  a  Scripture  concordance,  and  his  j 
hands  the  hands  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  j 
saints. 

Then  they  went  back  a  century  or  | 
two,   and   were   eloquent   about    the 
great  antique  heart,  and  the  beauty  of 
an   age   whose  samples   were  Abbot 
Sampson  and  Joan  of  Arc. 

Lord  Ipsden  hated  argument ;  but 
jealousy  is  a  brass  spur,  it  made  even 
this  man  fluent  for  once. 

He  suggested   "  that  five  hundred 
years  added  to  a  world's  life  made  it 
just   five   hundred  years   older,   not  i 
younger,  —  and    if  older,  grayer, — 
and  if  grayer,  wiser. 

"  Of  Abbot  Sampson,"  said  he, 
"  whom  I  confess  both  a  great  and  a 
good  man,  his  author,  who  with  all 
his  talent  belongs  to  the  class  muddle- 
head,  tells  us  that  when  he  had  been 
two  years  in  authority  his  red  hair 
had  turned  gray,  fighting  against  the 
spirit  of  his  age ;  how  the  deuce,  then, 
could  he  be  a  sample  of  the  spirit  of 
his  age  ? 

"  Joan  of  Arc  was  burnt  by  accla- 
mation of  her  age,  and  is  admired  by 
our  age.  Which  fact  identifies  an 
age  most  with  a  heroine,  to  give  her 
your  heart,  or  to  give  her  a  blazing 
fagot  and  death  ? 

"  Abbot  Sampson  and  Joan  of 
Arc,"  concluded  he,  "  prove  no  more 
in  favor  of  their  age,  and  no  less 
against  it,  than  Lot  does  for  or  against 
Sodom.  Lot  was  in  Sodom,  but  not 
of  it ;  and  so  were  Sampson  and  Joan 
in,  but  not  of,  the  villanous  times 
they  lived  in. 

"  The  very  best  text-book  of  true 
religion  is  the  New  Testament,  and  I 
gather  from  it,  that  the  man  who  for- 
gives his  enemies  whilst  their  axe  de- 
scends  on    his    head,   however  poor 
a  creature  he  may  be  in  other  respects, 
is  a  better  Christian  than   the  man  j 
who  has  the  God  of  Mercy  forever  on 
his  lips,  and  whose  hands  are  swift  to  : 
shed  blood. 


"  The  earnest  men  of  former  ages 
are  not  extinct  in  this,"  added  he. 
"  Whenever  a  scaffold  is  erected  out- 
side a  prison-door,  if  you  are  earnest 
in  pursuit  of  truth,  and  can  put  up 
with  disgusting  objects,  you  shall  see 
a  relic  of  ancient  manners  hung. 

"  There  still  exist,  in  parts  of 
America,  rivers  on  whose  banks  are 
earnest  men  who  shall  take  your 
scalp,  the  wife's  of  your  bosom,  and 
the  innocent  child's  of  her  bosom. 

"  In  England  we  are  as  earnest  as 
eVer  in  pursuit  of  heaven,  and  of  in- 
nocent worldly  advantages.  If,  when 
the  consideration  of  life  and  death 
interposes,  we  appear  less  earnest  in 
pursuit  of  comparative  trifles  such  as 
kingdoms  or  dogmas,  it  is  because 
cooler  in  action  we  are  more  earnest 
in  thought,  —  because  reason,  expe- 
rience, and  conscience  are  things  that 
check  the  unscrupulousness  or  beast- 
ly earnestness  of  man. 

"  Moreover,  he  who  has  the  sense  to 
see  that  questions  have  three  sides  is 
no  longer  so  intellectually  as  well  as 
morally  degraded  as  to  be  able  to  cut 
every  throat  that  utters  an  opinion 
contrary  to  his  own. 

"  If  the  phrase '  earnest  man  '  means 
man  imitating  the  beasts  that  are  deaf 
to  reason,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  civili- 
zation and  Christianity  will  really  ex- 
tinguish the  whole  race  for  the  benefit 
of  the  earth." 

Lord  Ipsden  succeeded  in  annoying 
the  fair  theorist,  but  not  in  convincing 
her. 

The  mediaeval  enthusiasts  looked 
on  him  as  some  rough  animal  that 
had  burst  into  sacred  grounds  uncon- 
sciously, and  gradually  edged  away 
from  him. 


CHAPTER    X. 

LORD  IPSDEX  had  soon  the  mortifi- 
cation of  discovering  that  this  Mr.  *  *  * 
was  a  constant  visitor  at  the  house ; 
and,  although  his  cousin  gave  him 
her  ear  in  this  man's  absence,  on  the 
arrival  of  her  fellow-enthusiast  he  had 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


133 


ever  the  mortification  of  finding  him- 
self de  Irop. 

Once  or  twice  lie  demolished  this 
personage  in  argument,  and  was  re- 
warded by  finding  himself  more  de 
trap. 

But  one  day  Lady  Barbara,  being 
in  a  cousinly  humor,  expressed  a  wish 
to  sail  in  his  Lordship's  yacht,  and 
this  hint  soon  led  to  a  party  being  or- 
ganized, and  a  sort  of  picnic  on  the 
island  of  Inch  Coombe ;  his  Lordship's 
cutter  being  the  mode  of  conveyance 
to  and  from  that  spot. 

Now  it  happened  on  that  very  day 
Jean  Carnie's  marriage  was  cele- 
brated on  that  very  island  by  her  re- 
lations and  friends. 

So  that  we  shall  introduce  our  read- 
ers to 

THE   RIVAL  PICNICS. 

We  begin  with  Lest/ens  comme  ilfaut. 
PICNIC  No.  1. 

The  servants  were  employed  in 
putting  away  dishes  into  hampers. 

There  was  a  calm  silence. 

"  Hem  !  "  observed  Sir  Henry  Tal- 
bot. 

"  Eh  ?  "  replied  the  Honorable  Tom 
Hitherington. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Miss  Vere,  "  have 
you  brought  any  work  1" 
'  "  No,  my  dear." 

"  At  a  picnic,"  said  Mr.  Hither- 
ington, "  isn't  it  the  thing  for  some- 
hody  —  aw  —  to  do  something  ?  " 

"  Ipsden,"  said  Lady  Barbara, 
"  there  is  an  understanding  between 
you  and  Mr.  Hitherington.  I  con- 
demn you  to  turn  him  into  English." 

"  Yes,  Lady  Barbara ;  I  '11  tell  you, 
he  means,  —  do  you  mean  anything, 
Tom?" 

Hitherington.  "  Can't  anybody  guess 
what  I  mean  ?  " 


Lady  Barbara.  "  Guess  first  your- 
self, you  can't  be  suspected  of  being 
in  the  secret." 

Hither.  What  I  mean  is,  that  peo- 
ple sing  a  song,  or  run  races,  or  preach 
a  sermon,  or  do  something  funny  at 
a  picnic,  —  aw  —  somebody  gets  up 
and  does  something." 

Lady  Bar.  "  Then  perhaps  Miss 
Vere,  whose  singing  is  famous,  will 
have  the  complaisance  to  sing  to 
us." 

Miss  Vere.  "  I  should  be  happy, 
Lady  Barbara,  but  I  have  not  brought 
my  music." 

Lady  Bar.  "  O,  we  are  not  critical ; 
the  simplest  air,  or  even  a  fragment 
of  melody  ;  the  sea  and  the  sky  will 
be  a  better  accompaniment  than 
Broadwood  ever  made." 

Miss  V.  "  I  can't  sing  a  note  with- 
out book." 

Sir  H.  Talbot.  "  Your  music  is  ia 
your  soul, — not  at  your  fingers' 
ends." 

Lord  Ipsden,  to  Lady  Bar.  "  It  is  in 
her  book,  and  not  in  her  soul." 

Lady  Bar.,  to  Lord  Ips.  "  Then  it 
has  chosen  the  better  situation  of  the 
two." 

Ips.  "  Miss  Vere  is  to  the  fine  art  of 
music  what  the  engrossers  are  to  the 
black  art  of  law ;  it  all  filters  through 
them  without  leaving  any  sediment ; 
and  so  the  music  of  the  day  passes 
through  Miss  Vere's  mind,  but  none 
remains  —  to  stain  its  virgin  snow." 
He  bows,  she  smiles. 

Lady  Bar.,  to  herself.  "  Insolent : 
and  the  little  dunce  thinks  he  is  com- 
plimenting her." 

Ips.  "  Perhaps  Talbot  will  come  to 
our  rescue,  —  he  is  a  fiddler." 

Tal.   "  An  amateur  of  the  violin." 

Ips.    "  It  is  all  the  same  thing." 

Lady  Bar.    "  I  wish  it  may  prove 


Tal 


(Grave.) 


13-4  CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 

fff  Prestissimo. 


1    •    '  — - — 0-f 


S3EEEEI 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


135 


Sflss  Y.   "  Beautiful." 

Mrs.  Vere.   "  Charming." 

'Hither.    "  Superb  !  " 

Ips.  "  You  arc  aware  that  good 
music  is  a  thing  to  be  wedded  to  im- 
mortal verse,  shall  I  recite  a  bit  of 
poetry  to  match  Talbot's  strain  ?  " 

Miss  V.   "  O  yes  !  how  nice." 

Ins.  (rhetorically.)  "  A.  B.  C.  D. 
E.  F.  G.  H.  I.  J.  K.  L.  M.  K  O.  P. 
Q.  R.  S.  T.  U.  V.  W.  X.  Y.  Z.  Y.  X. 
W.  V.  U.  T.  S.  O.  N.  M.  L.  K.  J.  I. 
H.  G.  F.  A.  M.  little  p.  little  t." 

Lady  Bar.  "  Beautiful !  Superb  ! 
Ipsden  has  been  taking  lessons  on  the 
thinking  instrument." 

Hither.  "  He  has  been  perdu 
amongst  vulgar  people." 

Tal.  "  And  expects  a  pupil  of  Herz 
to  play  him  tunes  !  " 

Lady  Bar.  "  What  are  tunes,  Sir 
Henry  1  " 

Tal.  "  Something  I  don't  play, 
Lady  Barbara." 

Lady  Bar.  "  I  understand  you ; 
something  we  ought  to  like." 

Ips.  "  I  have  a  Stradivarius  violin 
at  home  :  it  is  yours,  Talbot,  if  you 
can  define  a  tune." 

Tal.  "  A  tune  is  —  everybody 
knows  what." 

Lady  Bar.  "  A  tune  is  a  tune,  that 
is  what  you  meant  to  say." 

Tal.  "  Of  course  it  is." 

Lady  Bar.  "  Be  reasonable,  Ips- 
dcn ;  no  man  can  do  two  things  at 
once  ;  how  can  the  pupil  of  Herz  con- 
demn a  thing  and  know  what  it  means 
contemporaneously  ? " 

Ips.  "  Is  the  drinking-song  in  '  Der 
Freischutz '  a  tune  ?  " 

Lady  Bar.   "  It  is." 

Ips.  "  And  the  melodies  of  Handel, 
are  they  tunes  ?  " 

Lady  Bar.  (pathetically.)  "  They 
.are !  They  are  !  " 

Ips.  "  And  the  '  Russian  Anthem,' 
and  the  '  Marseillaise,'  and  '  Ah,  Per- 
dona ' ?  " 

Tal.   "  And  Yankee  Doodle  ?  " 

Lady  Bar.  "  So  that  Sir  Henry, 
who  prided  himself  on  his  ignorance, 
has  a  wide  field  for  its  dominion." 

Tal.    "  All  good  violin-players  do 


like  me;  they  prelude,  not  play 
tunes." 

Ips.  "  Then  Heaven  be  thanked  for 
our  blind  fiddlers.  You  like  syllables 
of  sound  in  unmeaning  rotation,  and 
you  despise  its  words,  its  purposes,  its 
narrative  feats ;  carry  out  your  prin- 
ciple, it  will  show  you  where  you  are. 
Buy  a  dirty  palette  for  a  picture,  and 
dream  the  alphabet  is  a  poem." 

Lady  Bar.,  to  herself.  "  Is  this  my 
cousin  Richard  ?  " 

Hither.  "  Mind,  Ipsden,  you  are  a 
man  of  property,  and  there  are  such 
things  as  commissions  de  lunatico." 

Lady  Bar.  "  His  defence  will  be  that 
his  friends  pronounce  him  insane." 

Ips.  "  No  ;  I  shall  subpoena  Talbot's 
fiddle,  cross-examination  will  get  noth- 
ing out  of  that  but,  do,  re,  mi,  fa." 

Lady  Bar.  "  Yes,  it  will ;  fa,  mi, 
re,  do. ' 

Tal.    "  Violin,  if  you  please." 

Lady  Bar.  "  Ask  Fiddle's  pardon, 
directly." 

Sound  of  fiddles  is  heard  in  the  distance. 

Tal.  "  How  lucky  for  you,  there  are 
fiddles  and  tunes,  and  the  natives  you 
are  said  to  favor,  why  not  join  them  ?  " 

Ips.  (shaking  his  head  solemnly.)  "  I 
dread  to  encounter  another  prelude." 

Hither.  "  Come,  I  know  you  would 
like ;  it  is  a  wedding-party,  —  two 
sea  monsters  have  been  united.  The 
sailors  and  fishermen  are  all  blue  cloth 
and  wash-leather  gloves." 

Miss  V.   "  He  !  he  !  " 

Tal.  "  The  fishwives  unite  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow  —  " 

Lady  Bar.  "  (And  we  all  know  how 
hideous  they  are)  — to  vulgar,  bloom- 
ing cheeks,  staring  white  teeth,  and 
sky-blue  eyes. 

Mrs.  V.  "  How  satirical  you  are, 
especially  you,  Lady  Barbara." 

Here  Lord  Ipsden,  after  a  word  to 
Lady  Barbara,  the  answer  to  which 
did  not  appear  to  be  favorable,  rose, 
gave  a  little  yawn,  looked  steadily  at 
his  companions  without  seeing  them, 
and  departed  without  seeming  aware 
that  he  was  leaving  anybody  behind 
him. 


136 


CHRISTIE  JOHN'STONE. 


Hither.  "  Let  us  go  somewhere 
where  we  can  quiz  the  natives  with- 
out being  too  near  them." 

Lady  Bar.  "  I  am  tired  of  this  un- 
broken solitude,  I  must  go  and  think 
to  the  sea,"  added  she,  in  a  mock 
soliloquy  ;  and  out  she  glided  with  the 
same  unconscious  air  as  his  Lordship 
had  worn. 

The  others  moved  off  slowly  to- 
gether. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Miss  Vere,  "  I 
can't  understand  half  Barbara  Sinclair 
says." 

"  It  is  not  necessary,  my  love," 
replied  mamma ;  "  she  is  rather  eccen- 
tric, and  I  fear  she  is  spoiling  Lord 
Ipsden." 

"  Poor  Lord  Ipsden,"  murmured 
the  lovely  Vere,  "  be  used  to  be  so 
nice,  and  do  like  everybody  else. 
Mamma,  I  shall  bring  some  work  the 
next  time." 

"  Do,  my  love." 

PICXIC  No.  2. 

In  a  house,  two  hundred  yards 
from  this  scene,  a  merry  dance,  suc- 
ceeding a  merry  song,  had  ended,  and 
they  were  in  the  midst  of  an  interest- 
ing story ;  Christie  Johnstone  was 
the  narrator.  She  had  found  the  tale 
in  one  of  the  Viscount's  books,  —  it 
had  made  a  great  impression  on  her. 

The  rest  were  listening  intently  :  in 
a  room  which  had  lately  been  all 
noise,  not  a  sound  was  now  to  be 
heard  but  the  narrator's  voice. 

"  Aweel,  lasses,  here  are  the  three 
wee  kists  set,  the  lads  are  to  chuse,  — 
the  ane  that  chuses  reicht  is  to  get 
Porsha,  an'  the  lave  to  get  the  bag, 
and  dee  baitchelars  ;  — Flucker  John- 
stone,  you  that 's  sae  clever,  —  are  ye 
for  gowd,  or  siller,  or  leed  ?  " 

\st  Fishwife.   "  Gowd  for  me  !  " 

2d  ditto.  "  The  white  siller  's  my 
taste." 

Flucker.  "  Na !  there 's  aye  some 
deevelish  trick  in  thir  lassie's  stories. 
I  shall  lie  to,  till  the  ither  lads  hae 
chused  ;  the  mair  part  will  put  thcm- 
sels  oot  ane  will  hit  it  off  reicht  may- 


be, then  I  shall  gie  him  a  hidin'  an' 
carry  off  the  lass.  You-hoo  !  " 

Jean  Carnie.  "  That 's  you,  Fluck- 
er." 

Christie  Johnstone.     "And   div  ye 

really  think  we  are  gawn  to  let  you 

see  a'  the  world  chuse  ?     Na,  lad,  ye 

are  putten  oot  o'  the  room,  like  wit- 

j  nesses." 

Flucker.  "  Then  I  'd  toss  a  penny ; 
for  gien  ye  trust  to  luck,  she  whiles 
favors  ye,  but  gien  ye  commence  to 
reason  and  argefy — ye  're  done  ! " 

Christie.  "  The  suitors  had  na  your 
wit,  my  manny,  or  maybe  they  had 
na  a  penny  to  toss,  sae  ane  chused 
the  gowd,  ane  the  siller ;  but  they  got 
an  awfu'  affront.  The  gold  kist  had 
just  a  skull  intil  't,  and  the  siller  a 
deed  cuddy's  head ! " 

Chorus  of  Females.    "  He  !  he !  he ! " 

Ditto  of  Males.  "  Haw !  haw  !  haw ! 
haw !  Ho  ! " 

Christie.  "An"  Porsha  puttit  the 
pair  of  gowks  to  the  door.  Then 
came  Bassanio,  the  lad  fra  Veeneece, 
that  Porsha  loed  in  secret.  Veeneece, 
lasses,  is  a  wonderful  city ;  the  streets 
o'  't  are  water,  and  the  carriages  are 
boats,  —  that 's  in  Chambers'." 

Flucker.  "  Wha  are  ye  making  a 
foolo'.?" 

Christie.   "  What 's  wrang  1 " 

Flucker.  "  Yon  's  just  as  big  a  lee 
as  ever  I  heerd." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his 

J  mouth  ere  he  had  reason   to  regret 

them ;  a  severe  box  on  the  ear  was 

administered  by  his  indignant  sister. 

Nobody  pitied  him. 

Christie.  "  I  '11  laern  ye  t'  affront 
me  before  a'  the  company." 

Jean  Carnie.  "  Suppose  it 's  a  lee, 
there  's  nae  silver  to  pay  for  it,  Fluck- 
er." 

Christie.  "  Jean,  I  never  telt  a  lee 
in  a'  my  days." 

Jean.  "  There 's  ane  to  begin  wi' 
then.  Go  ahead,  Custy." 

Christie.  "  She  bade  "the  music  play 
for  him,  for  music  brightens  thoucht; 
ony  way,  he  chose  the  leed  kist. 
Open'st'and  wasn't  there  Porsha's 
pictur,  and  a  posy,  that  said, 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


137 


'If  you  be  well  pleased  with  this, 

And  hold  your  fortune  for  your  bliss  ; 
Turn  you  where  your  leddy  iss, 
And  greet  her  wi'  a  loving  —  '  "  (Pause.) 

"  Kess,"  roared  the  company. 

Chorus,  led  by  Flucker.    "  Hurraih  !  " 

Christie  (pathetically).  "  Flucker, 
behave ! " 

Sand;/  Listen  (drunk).  "  Hur-raih  !  " 
He  then  solemnly  reflected.  "  Na  ! 
but  it 's  na  hurraih,  decency  requires 
amen  first  an'  hurraih  afterwards; 
here 's  kissin  plenty,  but  I  hear  nae 
word  o'  the  minister.  Ye  '11  obsairve, 
young  woman,  that  kissin  's  the  pro- 
logue to  sin,  and  I  'm  a  decent  mon, 
an'  a  gray-headed  mon,  an'  your  licht 
stories  are  no  for  me ;  sae  if  the  min- 
ister 's  no  cxpeckit  I  shall  retire, — 
an'  tak  my  quiet  gill  my  lane." 

Jean  Carnie.  "  And  div  ye  really 
think  a  decent  cummer  like  Gusty 
wad  let  the  lad  and  lass  misbehave 
thirsels  ?  Na  !  lad,  the  minister  's  at 
the  door,  but  "  (sinking  her  voice  to 
a  confidential  whisper)  "  I  daurna  let 
him  in,  for  fear  he  'd  see  ye  hae  putten 
the  enemy  in  your  mooth  sae  aerly. 
(That's  Custy's  word.") 

"Jemmy  Drysel,"  replied  Sandy, 
addressing  vacancy,  for  Jemmy  was 
mysteriously  at  work  in  the  kitchen, 
"  ye  hae  gotten  a  thoughtfu'  wife." 
(Then,  with  a  strong  revulsion  of 
feeling. )  "  Dinna  let  the  blakguflrd  * 
in  here,"  cried  he,  "  to  spoil  the  young 
folk's  sporrt." 

Christie.  "  Aweel,  lassies,  comes  a 
letter  to  Bassanio ;  he  reads  it,  and 
turns  as  pale  as  deeth." 

A  Fishwife.   "  Gude  help  us." 

Christie.  "  Poorsha  behooved  to  ken 
his  grief,  wha  had  a  better  reicht? 
'  Here  's  a  letter,  leddy,'  says  he, 
'  the  paper  's  the  boedy  of  my  freend, 
like,  and  every  word  in  it  a  gaping 
wound.' " 

A  Fisherman.    "  Maircy  on  us." 

Christie.    "  Lad,  it  was  fra  puir  An- 

*  At  present  this  is  a  spondee  in  England, 
—  a  trochee  in  Scotland.  The  pronunciation 
of  this  important  word  ought  to  be  fixed,  rep- 
resenting, as  it  does,  so  large  a  portion  of  the 
community  in  both  countries. 


tonio,  ye  mind  o'  him,  lasses.  Hech  ! 
the  ill  luck  o'  yon  man,  no  a  ship 
come  name;  ane  foundered  at  sea, 
coming  fra  Tri-po-lis ;  the  pirates 
scuttled  another,  an'  anc  ran  ashore 
on  the  Goodwins,  near  Bright-helm- 
stane,  that 's  in  England  itsel',  I  daur 
say :  sae  he  could  na  pay  the  three 
thoosand  ducats,  an'  Shylock  had 
grippit  him,  an'  sought  the  pund  o' 
flesh  affthe  breest  o'  him,  puir  body." 

Sandy  Liston.  "  He  would  na  be 
the  waur  o'  a  wee  bit  hiding,  yon 
thundering  urang-utang  ;  let  the  man 
alane,  ye  Cursed  old  cannibal." 

Christie.  "  Poorsha  keepit  her  man 
but  ae  hoor  till  they  were  united,  an' 
then  sent  him  wi'  a  pucklc  o'  her  ain 
siller  to  Veencece,  and  Antonio, — 
think  o'  that,  lassies,  —  pairted  on 
their  wedding-day." 

Lizzy  Johns/one,  a  Fishwife,  aged  12. 
"  Hcch  !  hech  !  it 's  lamentable. 

Jean  Carnie.  "  I  'm  saying,  mair- 
riage  is  quick  wark,  in  some  pairts, 
—  here  there 's  an  awfu'  trouble  to  get 
a  man." 

A  young  Fishwife.   "  Ay,  is  there." 

Omnes.  "  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  !  "  (The 
fishwife  hides.) 

Christie.  "  Fill  your  taupscls,  lads 
and  lasses,  and  awa  to  Veneece." 

Sandy  Liston  (sturdily).  "I '11  no 
gang  to  sea  this  day." 

Christie.  "  Noo,  we  are  in  the  hall 
o'  judgment.  Here  are  set  the  judges, 
awfu'  to  behold  ;  there,  on  his  throne, 
presides  the  Juke." 

Flucker.  "  She 's  awa  to  her  Enng- 
lish." 

Lizzy  Johnstone.  "  Did  we  come  to 
Vceneece  to  speak  Scoetch,  ye  useless 
fule  ?  " 

Christie.  "  Here,  pale  and  hopeless, 
but  resigned,  stands  the  broken  mair- 
chant,  Antonio  ;  there,  wi'  scales  and 
knives,  and  revenge  in  his  murderin' 
eye,  stands  the  crewel  Jew  Shylock." 

"  Aweel,"  muttered  Sandy,  consid- 
erately, "  I  '11  no  mak  a  disturbance 
on  a  wedding-day." 

Christie.  "  They  wait  for  Bell—  I 
dinna  mind  his  mind  —  a  laerned  law- 
yer, ony  way  ;  he  's  sick,  but  sends 


138 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


ane  mnir  lacrned  still,  and,  when  this 
ane  comes,  he  looks  not  older  nor 
wiser  than  niysel." 

Flucker.   "  No  possible  !  " 

Christie.  "  Ye  needna  be  sae  sarcy, 
Flucker,  for  when  he  comes  to  his 
wark  lie  soon  lets  'em  ken,  —  runs  his 
cen  like  lightening  ower  the  boend. 
"  This  bond 's  forfeit.  Is  Antonio  not 
able  to  dischairge  the  money  ?  ' 
'Ay!"  cries  Bassanio,  'here's  the 
sum  thrice  told.'  Says  the  young 
judge,  in  a  bit  whisper  to  Shylock, 
'  Shylock,  there  's  thrice  thy  money 
offered  thee.  Be  mairceful,'  says  he, 
but  loud.  'Wha'll  mak  me?'  says 
the  Jew  body.  '  Mak  ye ! '  says  he ; 
'  maircy  is  no  a  thing  ye  strain 
through  a  sieve,  mon  ;  it  droppeth  like 
the  gentle  dew  fra'  heaven  upon  the 
place  beneath ;  it  blesses  him  that 
gives  and  him  that  taks  ;  it  becomes 
the  king  better  than  his  throne,  and 
airthly  power  is  maist  like  God's  pow- 
er when  maircy  seasons  justice.'  " 

Robert  Haw,  Fisherman.  "  Dinna 
speak  like  that  to  me,  onybody,  or  I 
shall  gie  ye  my  boat,  and  fling  my 
nets  intil  it,  as  ye  sail  awa  wi'  her." 

Jean  Carnie.  "  Sae  he  let  the  puir 
deevil  go.  Oh !  ye  ken  wha  could 
stand  up  against  siccan  a  shower  o' 
Ennglish  as  thaat." 

Christie.  "  He  just  said,  '  My  deeds 
upon  my  heed.  I  claim  the  law,'  says 
he ;  '  there  is  no  power  in  the  tongue 
o'  man  to  alter  me.  I  stay  fiere  on 
my  boend.' " 

Sandy  Listen.   "  I  hae  sat  quiet !  — 

Suiet  I  hae  sat  against  my  will,  no  to 
isturb  Jamie  Drysel's  weddin' ;  but 
.  ye  carry  the  game  ower  far,  Shylock, 
my  lad.  I'll  just  give  yon  bluidy- 
minded  urang-titang  a  hidin',  and 
bring  Tony  off,  the  gude,  puir-spir- 
ited  creature  :  and  him,  an'  me,  an' 
Bassanee,  an'  Porshee,  we  '11  all  hae 
a  gill  thegither." 

He  rose,  and  was  instantly  seized 
by  two  of  the  company,  from  whom 
he  burst  furiously,  after  a  struggle, 
and  the  next  moment  was  heard  to 
fall  clean  from  the  top  to  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs.  Flucker  and  Jean  ran 


out ;  the  rest  appealed  against  the  in- 
terruption. 

Christie.  "  Hech  !  he  's  killed  ;  Sandy 
Liston  's  brake  his  neck." 

"  What  aboot  it,  lassy  ?  "  said  a 
young  fisherman  ;  "  it 's  Antonio  I  'm 
feared  for;  save  him,  lassy,  if  poes- 
sible;  but  I  doot  ye '11  no  get  him 
clear  o'  yon  deevclich  heathen. 

"  Auld  Sandy  's  cheap  sairved," 
added  he,  with  all  the  indifference  a 
human  tone  could  convey. 

"  0  Cursty,"  said  Lizzy  Johnstone, 
with  a  peevish  accent,  "  diuna  break 
the  bonny  yarn  for  naething." 

Flucker  (returning).  "  He 's  a' 
reicht." 

Christie.     "  Is  he  no  dead  ?  " 

Flucker.  "  Him  deed  ?  he 's  sober, 
—  that 's  a'  the  change  I  see." 

Christie.  "  Can  he  speak  ?  I  'm 
asking  ye." 

F/itcker.    "  Yes,  he  can  speak." 

Christie.  "  What  does  he  say,  puir 
body  ? " 

Flucker.  "  He  sat  up,  an'  sought  a 
gill  fra'  the  wife  —  puir  body  ! " 

Christie.  "  Hech,  hech  !  he  was  my 
pupil  in  the  airt  o'  sobriety  !  —  aweel, 
the  young  judge  rises  to  deliver  the 
sentence  of  the  coort.  Silence  !  " 
thundered  Christie.  A  lad  and  a 
lass  that  were  slightly  flirting  were 
discountenanced. 

Christie.  "  A  pund  o'  that  same 
mairchant's  flesh  is  thine  !  the  coort 
awards  it,  and  the  law  does  give  it." 

A  young  Fishwife.  "  There,  I  thoucht 
sae ;  he 's  gaun  to  cut  him,  he  's  gaun 
to  cut  him;  I'll  no  can  bide."  (Ex- 
ibat. ) 

Christie.  "  There 's  a  fulish  golo- 
shen.  '  Have  by  a  doctor  to  stop  the 
blood.'  — '  I  see  nae  doctor  in  the 
boend,'  says  the  Jew  body." 

Flucker.  "Bait  your  hook  wi'  a 
boend,  and  ye  shall  catch  yon  carle's 
saul,  Satin,  my  lad." 

Christie  (with  dismal  pathos).  "O 
Flucker,  dinna  speak  evil  o'  deegne- 
ties  —  that's  maybe  fishing  for  your- 
sel'  the  noo  !  — '  An'  yc  shall  cut  the 
flesh  frae  off  his  brecst.'  — '  A  sen- 
tence,' says  Shylock,  'come,  prepare."' 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


139 


Christie  made  a  dash  en  Shylock, 
and  the  company  trembled. 

Christie.  "  '  Bide  a  \vee,'  says  the 
judge,  '  this  boend  gies  ye  na  a  drap 
o'  bluid ;  the  words  expressly  are,  a 
pund  o'  flesh  ! ' " 

(A  Dramatic  Pause.) 

Jean  Carnie  (drawing  her  breath). 
"That's  into  your  mutton,  Shy  lock." 

Christie  (with  dismal  pathos).  "O 
Jean  !  yon  's  an  awfu'  voolgar  expras- 
sion  to  come  fra'  a  woman's  mooth." 

"  Could  ye  no  hae  said,  '  intil  his 
bacon  '  1  "  said  Lizzy  Johnstone,  con- 
firming the  remonstrance. 

Christie.  "  Then  tak  your  boend, 
an'  your  pund  o'  flesh,  but  in  cutting 
o'  't,  if  thou  dost  shed  one  drop  of 
Christian  bluid,  thoudiest!" 

Jean  Carnie.    "  Ilech  !  " 

Christie.  "  Thy  goods  are  by  the 
laws  of  Veneece  con-fis-cate,  confis- 
cate ! " 

Then,  like  an  artful  narrator,  she 
began  to  wind  up  the  story  more  rap- 
idly. 

"  Sae  Shylock  got  to  be  no  sae 
saucy :  '  Pay  the  boend  thrice,'  says 
he,  '  and  let  the  puir  deevil  go.'  — 
'  Here  it 's,'  says  Bassanio.  —  Na !  the 
young  judge  wadna  let  him.  —  'He 
has  refused  it  in  open  coort ;  no  a 
bawbee  for  Shylock  but  just  the  for- 
feiture ;  an'  he  daur  na  tak  it.'  — '  I  'm 
awa','  says  he.  '  The  deivil  tak  ye 
a'.'  —  Na !  he  wasna  to  win  clear  sae ; 
ance  they  'd  gotten  the  Jew  on  the 
hep,  they  worried  him,  like  good 
Christians,  that 's  a  fact.  The  judge 
fand  a  law  that  fitted  him,  for  conspir- 
ing against  the  life  of  a  citizen  ;  an' 
he  behooved  to  give  up  hoose  an'  lands, 
and  be  a  Christian ;  yon  was  a  soor 
drap,  —  he  tarned  no  weel,  puir  auld 
villain,  an'  scairtit ;  an'  the  lawyers 
sent  ane  o'  their  weary  parchments 
till  his  hoose,  and  the  puir  auld  hea- 
then signed  awa'  his  siller,  an'  Abra- 
ham, an'  Isaac,  an'  Jacob,  on  the  heed 
o'  't.  I  pity  him,  an  auld,  auld  man  ; 
and  his  dochter  had  rin  off  wi'  a 
Christian  lad, — they  ca'  her  Jessica, 


and  did  n't  she  steal  his  very  diamond 
ring  that  his  ain  lass  gied  him  when 
he  was  young,  an'  maybe  no  sae  hard- 
hairted  t " 

Jean  Carnie.  "  O  the  jaud  !  sup- 
pose he  was  a  Jew,  it  was  na  her  busi- 
ness to  clean  him  oot." 

A  young  Fishwife.  "  Aweel,  it  was 
only  a  Jew  body,  that 's  my  comfort." 

Christie.  "  Ye  speak  as  a  Jew  was 
na  a  man ;  has  not  a  Jew  eyes,  if  ye 
please  1  " 

Lizzy  Johnstone.  "  Ay,  has  he  !  — 
and  the  awfuest  langneb  atween  em." 

Christie.  "  Has  not  a  Jew  affections, 
paassions,  organs  ? " 

Jean.  "  Na  !  Christie  ;  .thir  lads 
comes  fr'  Italy  !  " 

Christie.  "  If  you  prick  him,  does 
he  not  bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  him,  does 
na  he  lauch  ?  " 

A  young  Fishwife  (pertly).  "  I  never 
kittlet  a  Jew,  for  my  pairt,  —  sae  I  '11 
no  can  tell  ye." 

Christie.  "  If  you  poison  him,  does 
he  not  die  ?  and  if  you  wrang  him," 
(with  fun/,)  "  shall  he  not  revenge  ?  " 

Lizzy  Johnstone.  "  Oh  !  .but  ye  're  a 
fearsome  lass." 

Christie.  "  Wha  '11  give  me  a  sang 
for  my  bonny  yarn  ?  " 

Lord  Ipsden,  who  had  been  an  un- 
observed auditor  of  the  latter  part  of 
the  tale,  here  inquired  whether  she  had 
brought  her  book. 

"  What'n  buik  ?  " 

"  Your  music-book  !  " 

"Here's  my  music-book,"  said  Jean, 
roughly  tapping  her  head. 

"  And  here 's  mines,"  said  Christie, 
bird-ly,  touching  her  bosom. 

"  Richard,"  said  she,  thoughtfully^ 
I  wish  ye  may  no  hae  been  getting  in 
voolgar  company :  div  ye  think  we 
hae  minds  like  rinning  water  1 " 

Flucker  (avec  malice).  "And  tongues 
like  the  mill-clack  abune  it  ?  Be- 
cause if  ye  think  sae,  captain,  —  ye  're 
no  far  wrang  !  " 

Christie.  "  Na !  we  hae  na  mnckle 
gowd  maybe  ;  but  our  minds  are 
ijowden  vessels." 

Jean.   "  Aha !  lad." 

Christie.   "  They  are  not  saxpenny 


140 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


sieves,  to  let  music  an'  metre  through, 
and  leave  us  none  the  wiser  or  better. 
Dinna  gang  in  low  voolgar  company, 
or  vou  a  lost  laddy." 

Ipsden.  "  Vulgar,  again !  every- 
body has  a  different  sense  for  that 
word,  I  think.  What  is  vulgar  ?  " 

Christie.  "  Voolgar  folk  sit  on  an 
chair,  ane,  twa,  whiles  three  hours, 
eatin'  an'  abune  a'  drinkin',  as  still  as 
hoegs,  or  gruntin'  puir  every-day 
clashes,  goessip,  rubbich  ;  when  ye  are 
aside  them,  ye  might  as  weel  be  aside 
a  cuddy ;  they  canna  gie  ye  a  sang, 
they  canna  gie  ye  a  story,  they  canna 
think  ye  a  thoucht,  to  save  their  use- 
less lives  ;  that 's  voolgar  folk." 

She  sings.    "  A  caaller  herrin' ! " 

Jean.   "  A  caaller  herriu' ! " 

Omnes. 

"  Come  buy  my  bonny  caaller  herrin', 
Six  a  penny  caaller  from  the  sea,"  &c. 

The  music  chimed  in,  and  the  mo- 
ment the  song  was  done,  without 
pause,  or  anything  to  separate  or  chill 
the  succession  of  the  arts,  the  fiddles 
diverged  with  a  gallant  plunge  into 
"  The  Dusty  Miller."  The  dancers 
found  their  feet  by  an  instinct  as  rap- 
id, and  a  rattling  reel  shook  the  floor 
like  thunder.  Jean  Carnie  assumed 
the  privilege  of  a  bride,  and  seized  his 
Lordship  ;  Christie,  who  had  a  mind 
to  dance  with  him  too,  took  Fluckcr 
captive,  and  these  four  were  one  reel ! 
There  were  seven  others. 

The  principle  of  reel  dancing  is  ar- 
ticulation ;  the  foot  strikes  the  ground 
for  every  accented  note  (and,  by  the 
by,  it  is  their  weakness  of  accent 
which  makes  all  English  reel  and 
hornpipe  players  such  failures). 

And  in  the  best  steps  of  all,  which 
it  has  in  common  with  the  hornpipe, 
such  as  the  quick  "  heel  and  toe," 
"  the  sailor's  fling,"  and  the  "  double 
shuffle,"  the  foot  strikes  the  ground 
for  every  single  note  of  the  instrument. 

All  good  dancing  is  beautiful. 

But  this  articulate  dancing,  com- 
pared with  the  loose,  lawless  difflucnce 
of  motion  that  goes  by  that  name, 
gives  me  (I  must  confess  it)  as  much 


more  pleasure  as  articulate  singing  is 
superior  to  tunes  played  on  the  voice 
by  a  young  lady  : 

Or  the  clean  playing  of  my  mother 
to  the  piano-forte  splashing  of  my 
daughter ;  though  the  latter  docs  at- 
tack the  instrument  as  a  washerwoman 
her  soapsuds,  and  the  former  works 
like  a  lady. 

Or  skating  to  sliding  : 

Or  English  verse  to  dactyls  in  Eng- 
lish : 

Or  painting  to  daubing : 

Or  preserved  strawberries  to  straw- 
berry jam. 

What  savs  Goldsmith  of  the  two 
styles  ? 

"They  swam,  sprawled,  frisked, 
and  languished  ;  but  Olivia's  foot 
was  as  pat  to  the  music  as  its  echo." 
—  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

Newhavcn  dancing  aims  also  at 
fun  ;  laughter  mingles  with  agility  ; 
grotesque,  yet  graceful  gestures  arc 
flung  in,  and  little  inspiring  cries 
flung  out. 

His  Lordship  soon  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  it.  Deep  in  the  mystery  of 
the  hornpipe,  he  danced  one  or  two 
steps  Jean  and  Christie  had  never 
seen,  but  their  eyes  were  instantly  on 
his  feet,  and  they  caught  in  a  minute 
and  executed  these  same  steps. 

To  see  Christie  Jolmstone  do  the 
double-shuffle  with  her  arms  so  sau- 
cily akimbo,  and  her  quick  elastic 
foot  at  an  angle  of  forty-five,  was  a 
treat. 

The  dance  became  inspiriting,  in- 
spiring, intoxicating ;  and,  when  the 
fiddles  at  last  left  off,  the  feet  went  on 
another  seven  bars  by  the  enthusias- 
tic impulse. 

And  so,  alternately  spinning  yams, 
singing  songs,  dancing,  and  making 
fun,  and  mingling  something  of  heart 
and  brain  in  all,  these  benighted  crea- 
tures made  themselves  happy  instead 
of  peevish,  and  with  a  day  of  stout, 
vigorous,  healthy  pleasure,  refreshed, 
indemnified,  and  warmed  themselves 
for  many  a  day  of  toil. 

Such  were  the  two  picnics  of  Inch 
Coombe,  and  these  rival  cliques, 


CHRISTIE  JOIINSTONE. 


agreeing  in  nothing  else,  would  have 
agreed  in  this  :  each,  if  allowed  (but 
we  won't  allow  either)  to  judge  the 
other,  would  have  pronounced  the 
same  verdict :  — 

"  Us  ne  savent  pas  vivre  ces  gens-la." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Two  of  our  personages  left  Inch 
Coombe  less  happy  than  when  they 
came  to  it.  » 

Lord  Ipsden  encountered  Lady 
Barbara  with  Mr.  ***,  who  had 
joined  her  upon  the  island. 

He  found  them  discoursing,  as  usu- 
al, about  the  shams  of  the  present 
day,  and  the  sincerity  of  Cromwell 
and  Mahomet,  and  he  found  himself 
de  trop. 

They  made  him,  for  the  first  time, 
.  regret  the  loss  of  those  earnest  times 
when,  "  to  avoid  the  inconvenience  of 
both  addressing  the  same  lady,"  you 
could  cut  a  rival's  throat  at  once,  and 
be  smiled  on  by  the  fair  and  society. 

That  a  book-maker  should  blas- 
pheme high  civilization,  by  which 
alone,  he  exists,  and  one  of  whose 
diseases  and  flying  pains  he  is,  neither 
surprised  nor  moved  him  ;  but  that 
any  human  being's  actions  should  be 
affected  by  such  tempestuous  twaddle 
was  ridiculous. 

And  that  the  witty  Lady  Barbara 
should  be  caught  by  this  chaff  was  in- 
tolerable ;  he  began  to  feel  bitter. 

He  had  the  blessings  of  the  poor, 
the  good  opinion  of  the  world ;  every 
living  creature  was  prepossessed  in 
his  favor  but  one,  and  that  one  de- 
spised him ;  it  was  a  diabolical  preju- 
dice ;  it  was  the  spiteful  caprice  of  his 
fate. 

His  heart,  for  a  moment,  was  in 
danger  of  deteriorating.  He  was  mis- 
erable ;  the  Devil  suggested  to  him, 
"  make  others  miserable  too  " ;  and 
he  listened  to  the  advice. 

There  was  a  fine  breeze,  but  in- 
stead of  sailing  on  a  wind,  as  he  might 


have  done,  he  made  a  series  of  tacks, 
and  all  were  ill. 

The  earnest  man  first ;  and  Fluck- 
er  announced  the  skipper's  insanity  to 
the  whole  town  of  Newhaven,  for,  of 
course,  these  tacks  were  all  marine 
solecisms. 

The  other  discontented  Picnician 
was  Christie  Johnstone.  Gatty  never 
came ;  and  this,  coupled  with  five  or 
six  days'  previous  neglect,  could  no 
longer  pass  unnoticed. 

Her  gayety  failed  her  before  the 
afternoon  was  ended ;  and  the  last 
two  hours  were  spent  by  her  alone, 
watching  the  water  on  all  sides  for 
him. 

At  last,  long  after  the  departure  of 
his  Lordship's  yacht,  the  Newhaven 
boat  sailed  from  Inch  Coombe  with 
the  wedding  party.  There  was  now 
a  strong  breeze,  and  the  water  every 
now  and  then  came  on  board :  so  the 
men  set  the  foresail  with  two  reefs, 
and  drew  the  mainsail  over  the  wo- 
men ;  and  there,  as  they  huddled  to- 
gether in  the  dark,  Jean  Carnie  dis- 
covered that  our  gay  story-teller's 
eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 

Jean  said  nothing:  she  embraced 
her  ;  and  made  them,  flow  faster. 

But,  when  they  came  alongside  the 
pier,  Jean,  who  was  the  first  to  get 
her  head  from  under  the  sail,  whipped  , 
it  back  again,  and  said  to  Christie  :  — 

"  Here  he  is,  Christie  ;  dinna  speak 
till  him." 

And  sure  enough  there  was,  in  the 
twilight,  with  a  pale  face  and  an  un- 
easy look,  —  Mr.  Charles  Gatty  ! 

He  peered  timidly  into  the  boat, 
and,  when  he  saw  Christie,  an  "  Ah !  " 
that  seemed  to  mean  twenty  different 
things  at  once,  burst  from  his  bosom. 
He  held  out  his  arm  to  assist  her. 

She  cast  on  him  one  glance  of  mute 
reproach,  and,  placing  her  foot  on  the 
boat's  gunwale,  sprang  like  an  ante- 
lope upon  the  pier,  without  accepting 
his  assistance. 

Before  going  further,  we  must  go 
back  for  this  boy,  and  conduct  him 
from  where  we  left  him  up  to  the 
present  point. 


142 


CHRISTIE  %JOHNST  ONE. 


The  moment  he  found  himself  alone 
•with  Jean  Carnie,  in  his  own  house, 
he  began  to  tell  her  what  trouble  he 
was  in  ;  how  his  mother  had  convinced 
him  of  his  imprudence  in  falling  in 
love  with  Christie  Johnstonc ;  and 
how  she  insisted  on  a  connection  be- 
ing broken  off,  which  had  given  him 
his  first  glimpse  of  heaven  upon  earth, 
and  was  contrary  to  common  sense. 

Jean  heard  him  out,  and  then,  with 
the  air  of  a  lunatic-asylum  keeper  to 
a  rhodomontading  patient,  told  him 
"  he  was  one  fool,  and  his  mother 
was  another."  First  she  took  him  up 
on  the  score  of  prudence. 

"  You,"  said  she,  "  are  a  beggarly 
painter,  without  a  rap;  Christie  has 
houses,  boats,  nets,  and  money  ;  you 
are  in  debt ;  she  lays  by  money  every 
week.  It  is  not  prudent  on  her  part 
to  take  up  with  you,  —  the  better 
your  bargain,  my  lad." 

Under  the  head  of  common  sense, 
which  she  maintained  was  all  on  the 
same  side  of  the  question,  she  calmly 
inquired :  — 

"  How  could  an  old  woman  of  six- 
ty be  competent  to  judge  how  far 
human  happiness  depends  on  love, 
when  she  has  no  experience  of  that 
passion,  and  the  reminiscences  of  her 
youth  have  become  dim  and  dark  1 
.You  might  as  well  set  a  judge  in 
court,  that  has  forgotten  the  law, — 
common  sense,"  said  she,  "  the  old 
wife  is  sixty,  and  you  are  twenty,  — 
what  can  she  do  for  you  the  forty  years 
you  may  reckon  to  outlive  her  ?  Who 
is  to  keep  you  through  those  weary 
years  but  the  wife  of  your  own  choice, 
not  your  mother's?  You  English 
does  na  read  the  Bible,  or  ye  'd  ken 
that  a  lad  is  to  '  leave  his  father  and 
mother,  and  cleave  until  his  wife,' " 
added  she ;  then  with  great  contempt 
she  repeated,  "  common  sense,  in- 
deed !  ye  're  fou  wi'  your  common 
sense ;  ye  hae  the  n  ame  o"t  pat  eneuch, 
—  but  there 's  na  muckle  o'  that  mair- 
chamlise  in  your  harns." 

Gatty  was  astonished  :  what !  was 
there  really  common  sense  on  the  side 
of  bliss  1  and  when  Jean  told  him  to 


join  her  party  at  Inch  Coombe,  or 
never  look  her  in  the  face  again,  scales 
seemed  to  fall  from  his  eyes  ;  and,  with 
a  heart  that  turned  in  a  moment  from 
lead  to  a  feather,  he  vowed  he  would 
be  at  Inch  Coombe. 

He  then  begged  Jean  on  no  account 
to  tell  Christie  the  struggle  he  had 
been  subjected  to,  since  his  scruples 
were  now  entirely  conquered. 

Jean  acquiesced  at  once,  and  said  : 
"  Indeed,  she  would  be  very  sorry  to 
give  the  lass  that  muckle  pain." 

She  hinted,  moreover,  that  her  nee- 
bor's  spirit  w#s  so  high,  she  was  quite 
capable  of  breaking  with  him  at  once 
upon  such  an  intimation  ;  and  she, 
Jean,  was  "  nae  mischief-maker." 

In  the  energy  of  his  gratitude,  he 
kissed  this  dark-browed  beauty,  pro- 
fessing to  see  in  her  a  sister. 

And  she  made  no  resistance  to  this 
way  of  showing  gratitude,  but  mut- 
tered between  her  teeth,  "  He  's  just  a 
bairn ! " 

And  so  she  went  about  her  business. 

On  her  retreat,  his  mother  returned 
to  him,  and,  with  a  sad  air,  hoped 
nothing  that  that  rude  girl  had  said 
had  weakened  his  filial  duty. 

"  No,  mother,"  said  he. 

She  then,  without  explaining  how 
she  came  acquainted  with  Jean's  ar- 
guments, proceeded  to  demolish  them 
one  by  one. 

"  If  your  mother  is  old  and  experi- 
enced," said  she,  "  benefit  by  her  age 
and  experience.  She  has  not  forgot- 
ten love,  nor  the  ills  it  leads  to,  when 
not  fortified  by  prudence.  Scripture 
says  a  man  shall  cleave  to  his  wife 
when  he  has  left  his  parents  ;  but  in 
making  that,  the  most  important  step 
of  life,  where  do  you  read  that  he  is  to 
break  the  fifth  commandment  ?  But  I 
do  you  wrong,  Charles,  you  never 
could  have  listened  to  that  vulgar  girl 
when  she  told  you  your  mother  was 
not  your  best  friend." 

"  N — no,  mother,  of  course  not." 

"  Then  you  will  not  go  to  that  place 
to  break  my  heart,  and  undo  all  you 
have  done  this  week." 

"  I  should  like  to  go,  mother." 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


143 


"  You  will  break  my  heart  if  you 
do." 

"  Christie  will  feel  herself  slighted, 
and  she  has  not  deserved  this  treat- 
ment from  me." 

"  The  other  will  explain  to  her,  and 
if  she  is  as  good  a  girl  as  you  say  —  " 

"  She  is  an  angel !  " 

"  How  can  a  fishwife  be  an  angel  ? 
Well,  then,  she  will  not  set  a  son  to 
disobey  his  mother." 

"  I  don't  think  she  would !  but  is 
all  the  goodness  to  he  on  her  side  ?  " 
"  "  No,  Charles,  you  do  your  part ; 
deny  yourself,  be  an  obedient  child, 
and  your  mother's  blessing  and  the 
blessing  of  Heaven  will  rest  upon 
you." 

In  short,  he  was  not  to  go  to  Inch 
Coombe. 

He  stayed  at  home,  his  mother  set 
him  to  work ;  he  made  a  poor  hand 
of  it,  he  was  so  wretched.  She  at  last 
took  compassion  on  him,  and  in  the 
evening,  when  it  was  now  too  late  for 
a  sail  to  Inch  Coombe,  she  herself 
recommended  a  walk  to  him. 

The  poor  boy's  feet  took  him  to- 
wards Newhaven,  not  that  he  meant 
to  go  to  his  love,  but  he  could  not  for- 
bear from  looking  at  the  place  which 
held  her. 

He  was  about  to  return,  when  a 
spacious  blue  jacket  hailed  him. 
Somewhere  inside  this  jacket  was 
Master  Flucker,  who  had  returned  in 
the  yacht,  leaving  his  sister  on  the  isl- 
and. 

Gatty  instantly  poured  out  a  flood 
of  questions. 

The  baddish  boy  reciprocated  flu- 
ency :  he  informed  him  "  that  his  sis- 
ter had  been  the  star  of  a  goodly  com- 
pany, and  that,  her  own  lad  having 
stayed  away,  she  had  condescended  to 
make  a  conquest  of  the  skipper  him- 
self. 

"  He  had  come  in  quite  at  the  tag- 
end  of  one  of  her  stories,  but  it  had 
been  sufficient  to  do  his  business,  — 
he  had  danced  with  her,  had  even 
whistled  whilst  she  sung.  (Ilech,  it 
was  bonny  !  ) 

"  And  when  the  cutter  sailed,  he, 


Flucker,  had  seen  her  perched  on 
a  rock,  like  a  mermaid,  watching  their 
progress,  which  had  been  slow,  be-^ 
cause  the  skipper,  infatuated  with  so 
sudden  a  passion,  had  made  a  series 
of  ungrammatical  tacks." 

For  his  part  he  was  glad,  said  the 
gracious  Flucker ;  the  lass  was  a  pride- 
ful  hussy,  that  had  given  some  twenty 
lads  a  sore  heart  and  him  many  a  sore 
back  ;  and  he  hoped  his  skipper,  with 
whom  he  naturally  identified  himself 
rather  than  with  his  sister,  would 
avenge  the  male  sex  upon  her." 

In  short,  he  went  upon  this  tack  till 
he  drove  poor  Gatty  nearly  mad. 

Here  was  a  new  feeling  superadded ; 
at  first  he  felt  injured,  but  on  rcflectiou 
what  cause  of  complaint  had  he  1 

He  had  neglected  her ;  he  might 
have  been  her  partner,  —  he  had  left 
her  to  find  one  where  she  could. 

Fool,  to  suppose  that  so  beautiful  a 
creature  would  ever  be  neglected  — 
except  by  him  ! 

It  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 

He  determined  to  see  her,  to  ask  her 
forgiveness,  to  tell  her  everything,  to 
beg  her  to  decide,  and,  for  his  part,  he 
would  abide  by  her  decision. 

Christie  Johnstone,  as  we  have  al- 
ready related,  declined  his  arm,  sprang 
like  a  deer  upon  the  pier,  and  walked 
towards  her  home,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
distant. 

Gatty  followed  her,  disconsolately, 
hardly  knowing  what  to  do. 

At  last,  observing  that  she  drew 
near  enough  to  the  wall  to  allow  room 
for  another  on  the  causeway,  he  had 
just  nous  enough  to  creep  alongside, 
and  pull  her  sleeve  somewhat  tim- 
idly. 

"  Christie,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  What  can  ye  hae  to  say  till  me  1  " 

"  Christie,  I  am  very  unhappy  ;  and 
I  want  to  tell  you  why,  but  I  have 
hardly  the  strength  or  the  courage." 

"  Ye  shall  come  ben  my  hoose  if  ye 
are  unhappy,  and  we  '11  hear  your  sto- 
ry ;  come  away." 

He  had  never  been  admitted  into  her 
house  before. 

They  found  it  clean,  as  a  snowdrift. 


144 


CHRISTIE   JOIIXSTONE. 


They  found  a  bright  fire,  and  Fluck- 
cr  frying  innumerable  steaks. 

The  baddish  boy  had  obtained  them 
in  his  sister's  name  and  at  her  ex- 
pense, at  the  flesher's,  and  claimed 
credit  for  his  affection. 

Potatoes  he  had  boiled  in  their  jack- 
ets, and  so  skilfully,  that  those  jackets 
hung  by  a  thread. 

Christie  laid  an  unbleached  table- 
cloth, that  somehow  looked  sweeter 
than  a  white  one,  as  brown  bread  is 
sweeter  than  white. 

But  lo,  Gatty  could  not  eat ;  so  then 
Christie  would  not,  because  he  refused 
her  cheer. 

The  baddish  boy  chuckled,  and  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  nice  brown 
steuks  with  their  rich  gravy. 

On  such  occasions  a  solo  on  the 
knife  and  fork  seemed  better  than  a 
trio  to  the  gracious  Flucker. 

Christie  moved  about  the  room,  do- 
ing little  household  matters ;  Gatty's 
eye  followed  her. 

Her  beauty  lost  nothing  in  this  small 
apartment ;  she  was  here,  like  a  bril- 
liant in  some  quaint,  rough  setting, 
which  all  earth's  jewellers  should  de- 
spise, and  all  its  poets  admire,  and  it 
should  show  off  the  stone  and  not 
itself. 

Her  beauty  filled  the  room,  and  al- 
most made  the  spectators  ill. 

Gatty  asked  himself  whether  he 
could  really  have  been  such  a  fool  as 
to  think  of  giving  up  so  peerless  a 
creature. 

Suddenly  an  idea  occurred  to  him, 
a  bright  one,  and  not  inconsistent  witli 
a  true  artist's  character,  —  he  would 
decline  to  act  in  so  doubtful  a  case : 
he  would  float  passively  down  the  tide 
of  events,  —  he  would  neither  desert 
her,  nor  disobey  his  mother  ;  he  would 
take  everything  as  it  came,  and  to  be- 
gin, as  he  was  there,  he  would  for  the 
present  say  nothing  but  what  he  felt, 
and  what  he  felt  was  that  he  loved  her. 

He  told  her  so  accordingly. 

She  replied,  concealing  her  satisfac- 
tion, "  that,  if  he  liked  her,  he  would 
not  have  refused  to  eat  when  she  asked 
him." 


But  our  hero's  appetite  had  returned 
with  his  change  of  purpose,  and  lie  in- 
stantly volunteered  to  give  the  re- 
quired proof  of  affection. 

Accordingly  two  pound  of  steaks  fell 
before  him. 

Poor  boy,  he  had  hardly  eaten  a 
genuine  meal  for  a  week  past. 

Christie  sat  opposite  him,  and  every 
time  he  looked  off  his  plate  he  saw 
her  rich  blue  eyes  dwelling  on  him. 

Everything  contributed  to  warm  his 
heart,  he  yielded  to  the  spell,  he  be- 
came contented,  happy,  gay. 

Flucker  ginger-cordialled  him,  his 
sister  bewitched  him. 

She  related  the  day's  events  in  a 
merry  mood. 

Mr.  Gatty  burst  forth  into  singing. 

He  sung  two  light  and  sombre  tri- 
fles, such  as  in  the  present  day  are 
deemed  generally  encouraging  to  spir- 
its, and  particularly  in  accordance 
with  the  sentiment  of  supper,  —  they 
were  about  Death  and  Ivy  Green. 

The  dog's  voice  was  not  very  pow- 
erful, but  sweet  and  round  as  honey 
dropping  from  the  comb. 

His  two  hearers  were  entranced,  for 
the  creature  sang  with  an  inspiration 
good  singers  dare  not  indulge. 

He  concluded  by  informing  Christie 
that  the  ivy  was  symbolical  of  her,  and 
the  oak  prefigured  Charles  Gatty,  Ksq. 

He  might  have  inverted  the  simile 
with  more  truth. 

In  short,  he  never  said  a  word  to 
Christie  about  parting  with  her,  but 
several  about  being  buried  in  the  same 
grave  with  her,  sixty  years  hence,  for 
which  the  spot  he  selected  was  West- 
minster Abbey. 

And  away  he  went,  leaving  golden 
opinions  behind  him. 

The  next  day  Christie  was  so  affect- 
ed with  his  conduct,  coining  as  it 
did  after  an  apparent  coolness,  that 
she  conquered  her  bashfulness  and 
called  on  the  "  Vile  Count,"  and  with 
some  blushes  and  hesitation  inquired, 
"  Whether  a  painter  lad  was  a  fit  sub- 
ject of  charity." 

"  Why  not 7  "  said  his  Lordship.* -", 

She  then  told  him  Gatty's  case,  and 


CHEISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


145 


he  instantly  promised  to  see  that  art- 
ist's pictures,  particularly  ane  "  awfu' 
bonny  anc  " ;  the  hero  of  which  she 
described  as  an  English  minister 
blessing  the  bairns  with  one  hand, 
and  giving  orders  to  kill  the  puir 
Scoetch  with  the  other. 

"  C'est  egal,"  said  Christie  in 
Scotch,  "  it 's  awfu'  bonny." 

Gatty  reached  home  late ;  his  moth- 
er had  retired  to  rest. 

But  the  next  morning  she  drew 
from  him  what  had  happened,  and 
then  ensued  another  of  those  dialogues 
which  I  am  ashamed  again  to  give  the 
reader. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  she  once  more 
prevailed,  though  with  far  greater  dif- 
ficulty ;  time  was  to  be  given  him  to 
unsew  a  connection  which  he  could 
not  cut  asunder,  and  he,  with  tearful 
eyes  and  a  heavy  heart,  agreed  to 
take  some  step  the  very  first  opportu- 
nity. 

This  concession  was  hardly  out  of 
his  mouth,  ere  his  mother  made  him 
kneel  down  and  bestowed  her  blessing 
upon  him. 

He  received  it  coldly  and  dully,  and 
expressed  a  languid  hope  it  might 
prove  a  charm  to  save  him  from  de- 
spair ;  and  sad,  bitter,  and  dejected, 
forced  himself  to  sit  down  and  work 
on  the  picture  that  was  to  meet  his 
unrelenting  creditor's  demand. 

He  was  working  on  his  picture,  and 
his  mother,  with  her  needle  at  the  ta- 
ble, when  a  knock  was.  heard,  and  gay 
as  a  lark,  and  fresh  as  the  dew  on  the 
shamrock,  Christie  Johnstone  stood  in 
person  in  the  apartment. 

She  was  evidently  the  hearer  of 
good  tidings ;  but,  before  she  could 
express  them,  Mrs.  Gatty  beckoned 
her  son  aside,  and  announcing,  "  she 
should  be  within  hearing,"  bade  him 
take  the  occasion  that  so  happily  pre- 
sented itself,  and  make  the  first  step. 

At  another  time,  Christie,  who  had 
learned  from  Jean  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Gatty,  would  have  been  struck  with 
the  old  lady's  silence ;  but  she  came 
to  tell  the  depressed  painter  that  the 
charitable  Viscount  was  about  to  visit 
7 


him.  and  his  picture ;  and  she  was  so 
full  of  the  good  fortune  likely  to  en- 
sue, that  she  was  neglectful  of  minor 
considerations. 

It  so  happened,  however,  that  cer- 
tain interruptions  prevented  her  from 
ever  delivering  herself  of  the  news  in 
question. 

First,  Gatty  himself  came  to  her, 
and,  casting  uneasy  glances  at  the 
door  by  which  his  mother  had  just 
gone  out,  said :  —  • 

"  Christie ! " 

"  My  lad !  " 

"  I  want  to  paint  your  likeness." 

This  was  for  a  souvenir,  poor  fellow ! 

"  Hech !  I  wad  like  fine  to  be  paint- 
ed." 

"  It  must  be  exactly  the  same  size 
as  yourself,  and  so  like  you,  that, 
should  we  be  parted,  I  may  seem  not 
to  be  quite  alone  in  the  world." 

Here  he  was  obliged  to  turn  his 
head  away. 

"  But  we  '11  no  pairt,"  replied  Chris- 
tie, cheerfully.  "  Suppose  ye  're  puir, 
I  'm  rich,  and  it 's  a'  one  ;  dinna  be 
so  cast  down  for  auchty  pund." 

At  this,  a  slipshod  servant  entered, 
and  said :  — 

"  There  's  a  fisher  lad,  inquiring  for 
Christie  Johnstone." 

"  It  will  be  Flucker,"  said  Christie ; 
"  show  him  ben.  What 's  wrang  the 
noo,  I  wonder !  " 

The  baddish  boy  entered,  took  up 
a  position,  and  remained  apparently 
passive,  hands  in  pockets. 

Christie.   "  Aweel,  what  est  ?  " 

Flucker.   "Gusty." 

Christie.  "  What 's  your  will,  my 
manny  ?  " 

Flucker.  "  Gusty,  I  was  at  Inch 
Keith  the  day." 

Christie.  "  And  hae  ye  really  come 
to  Edinbro'  to  tell  me  thaat  ?  " 

Flucker  (dryly).  "  Oh  !  ye  ken  the 
lasses  are  a  hantle  wiser  than  we  are, 
—  will  ye  hear  me  ?  South  Inch  Keith, 
I  played  a  bowl  i'  the  water,  just  for 
divairsion,  —  and  I  catched  twarree 
fish  ! " 

Christie.   "  Floonders,  I  bet." 

Flucker.  "Does  floonders  swim 
J 


146 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


high  ?  I  '11  let  yon  see  his  gills,  and 
if  ye  are  a  reicht  fishwife  ye  '11  smell 
bluid." 

Here  he  opened  his  jacket,  and 
showed  a  bright  little  fish. 

In  a  moment  all  Christie's  noncha- 
lance gave  way  to  a  fiery  animation. 
She  darted  to  Flucker's  side. 

"  Ye  hae  na  been  sae  daft  as  tell  ?  " 
asked  she. 

Flncker  shook  his  head  contemptu- 
ously. 

"  Ony  birds  at  the  island,  Flucker  ?  " 

"  Sea-maws,  plenty,  and  a  bird  I 
dinna  ken ;  he  moonted  sae  high,  then 
doon  like  thunder  intil  the  sea,  and 
gart  the  water  flee  as  high  as  Haman, 
and  porpoises  as  big  as  my  boat." 

"  Porr-poises,  fulish  laddy, —  ye  hae 
seen  the  herrin  whale  at  his  wark,  and 
the  solan  t  guse  ye  hae  seen  her  at 
wark  ;  and  beneath  the  sea,  Flucker, 
every  coedfish  and  doegfish,  and  fish 
that  has  teeth,  is  after  them ;  and  half 
Scotland  wad  be  at  Inch  Keith  Island 
if  they  kenned  what  ye  hae  tell 't  me, 
—  dinna  speak  to  me." 

During  this,  Gatty,  who  did  not 
comprehend  this  sudden  excitement, 
or  thought  it  childish,  had  tried  in 
vain  to  win  her  attention. 

At  last  he  said,  a  little  peevishly, 
"  Will  you  not  attend  to  me,  and  tell 
me  at  least  when  you  will  sit  to  me  ?  " 

"  Set !  "  cried  she.  "  When  there 's 
nae  wark  to  be  done  stanning." 

And  with  this  she  was  gone.  —  At 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  she  said  to  her 
brother :  — 

"  Puir  lad  !  I  '11  sune  draw  auchty 
punds  fra'  the  sea  for  him,  with  my 
feyther's  nets." 

As  she  disappeared,  Mrs.  Gatty  ap- 
peared. 

"  And  this  is  the  woman  whose 
mind  was  not  in  her  dirty  business," 
cried  she. 

"Does  not  that  open  your  eyes, 
Charles  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  Charles,"  added  she,  ten- 
derly, "  there  's  no  friend  like  a  moth- 
er." 

And  off  she  carried  the  prize,  — 
his  vanity  had  been  mortified. 


And  so  that  happened  to  Christie 
Johnstone  which  has  befallen  many 
a  woman,  —  the  greatness  of  her  love 
made  that  love  appear  small  to  her 
lover. 

"  Ah  !  mother,"  cried  he,  "  I  must 
live  for  you  and  my  art ;  I  am  not  so 
dear  to  her  as  I  thought." 

And  so,  with  a  sad  heart,  he  turned 
away  from  her;  whilst  she,  with  a 
light  heart,  darted  away  to  think  and 
act  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IT  was  some  two  hours  after  this 
that  a  gentleman,  plainly  dressed,  but 
whose  clothes  seemed  a  part  of  him- 
self (whereas  mine  I  have  observed 
hang  upon  me ;  and  the  Rev.  Josiah 
Splitall's  stick  to  him),  —  glided  into 
the  painter's  room,  with  an  inquiry 
whether  he  had  not  a  picture  or  two 
disposable. 

"  I  have  one  finished  picture,  sir," 
said  the  poor  boy  ;  "  but  the  price  is 
high  ! " 

He  brought  it,  in  a  faint-hearted 
way;  for  he  had  shown  it  to  five 
picture-dealers,  and  all  five  agreed  it 
was  hard. 

He  had  painted  a  lime-tree,  distant 
fifty  yards,  and  so  painted  it  that  it 
looked  something  like  a  lime-tree  fifty 
yards  off. 

"  That  was  mesquin,"  said  his 
judges  ;  "  the  poetry  of  painting  re- 
quired abstract  trees,  at  metaphysi- 
cal distance,  not  the  various  trees  of 
nature,  as  they  appear  under  positive 
accidents." 

On  this  Mr.  Gatty  had  deluged 
them  with  words. 

"  When  it  is  art,  truth,  or  sense 
to  fuse  a  cow,  a  horse,  and  a  critic 
into  one  undistinguishable  quadruped, 
with  six  legs,  then  it  will  be  art  to 
melt  an  ash,  an  elm,  and  a  lime, 
things  that  differ  more  than  quadru- 
peds, into  what  you  call  abstract  trees, 
that  any  man  who  has  seen  a  tree,  as 
well  as  looked  at  one,  would  call 
drunken  stinging-nettles.  You,  who 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONS. 


147 


nsrer  look  at  nature,  how  can  you 
judge  the  arts,  which  arc  all  but  cop- 
ies of  nature  1  At  two  hundred  yards' 
distance,  full-grown  trees  are  more 
distinguishable  than  the  animal  tribe. 
Paint  me  an  abstract  human  being, 
neither  man  nor  a  woman,"  said  he, 
"  and  then  I  will  agree  to  paint  a 
tree  that  shall  be  no  tree;  and,  if  no 
man  will  buy  it,  perhaps  the  father  of 
lies  will  take  it  .off  my  hands,  and 
hang  it  in  the  only  place  it  would  not 
disgrace." 

In  short,  he  never  left  off  till  he  had 
crushed  the  non-buyers  with  eloquence 
and  satire ;  but  he  could  not  crush 
them  into  buyers,  —  they  beat  him  at 
the  passive  retort. 

Poor  Gatty,  when  the  momentary 
excitement  of  argument  had  subsided, 
drank  the  bitter  cup  all  must  drink 
awhile,  whose  bark  is  alive  and  strong 
enough  to  stem  the  current  down 
which  the  dead,  weak  things  of  the 
world  arc  drifting,  many  of  them  into 
safe  harbors. 

And  now  he  brought  out  his  pic- 
ture with  a  heavy  heart. 

"  Now,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  this 
gentleman  will  talk  me  dead,  and 
leave  me  no  richer  in  coin,  and  poorer 
in  time  and  patience." 

The  picture  wa"s  placed  in  a  light, 
the  visitor  sat  down  before  it. 

A  long  pause  ensued. 

"  Has  he  fainted  ?  "  thought  Gatty, 
ironically  ;  "  he  does  n't  gabble." 

"  If  you  do  not  mind  painting  be- 
fore me,"  said  the  visitor,  "  I  should 
be  glad  if  you  would  continue  whilst 
I  look  into  this  picture." 

Gatty  painted. 

The  visitor  held  his  tongue. 

At  first  the  silence  made  the  artist 
uneasy,  but  by  degrees  it  began  to 
give  him  pleasure  ;  whoever  this  was, 
it  was  not  one  of  the  flies  that  had 
hitherto  stung  him,  nor  the  jackdaws 
that  had  chattered  him  dead. 

Glorious  silence  !  he  began  to  paint 
under  its  influence  like  one  inspired. 

Half  an  hour  passed  thus. 

"  What  is  the  price  of  this  work  of 
art  ?  " 


"  Eighty  pounds." 

"  I  take  it,"  said  his  visitor,  quietly. 

What,  no  more  difficulty  than 
that  ?  He  felt  almost  disappointed 
at  gaining  his  object  so  easily. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir ;  much 
obliged  to  you,"  he  added,  for  he  re- 
flected what  eighty  pounds  were  to 
him  just  then. 

"  It  is  my  descendants  who  are 
obliged  to  you,"  replied  the  gentle- 
man ;  "  the  picture  is  immortal !  " 

These  words  were  an  epoch  in  the 
painter's  life. 

The  grave,  silent  inspection  that 
had  preceded  them,  the  cool,  deliber- 
ate, masterly  tone  in  which  they  were 
said,  made  them  oracular  to  him. 

Words  of  such  import  took  him  by 
surprise. 

He  had  thirsted  for  average  praise 
in  vain. 

A  hand  had  taken  him,  and  placed 
him  at  the  top  of  the  tree. 

He  retired  abruptly,  or  he  would 
have  burst  into  tears. 

He  ran  to  his  mother. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  I  am  a  paint- 
er; I  always  thought  so  at  bottom, 
but  I  suppose  it  is  the  height  of  my 
ideas  makes  me  discontented  with  my 
work." 

"  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  critic  in  my  room.  I 
had  no  idea  there  was  a  critic  in  the 
creation,  and  there  is  one  in  my  room." 

"  Has  he  bought  your  picture,  my 
poor  boy  1  "  said  Mrs.  Gatty,  distrust- 
fully. 

To  her  surprise  he  replied  :  — 

"  Yes  !  he  has  got  it ;  only  eighty 
pounds  for  an  immortal  picture." 

Mrs.  Gatty  was  overjoyed,  Gatty 
was  a  little  sad ;  but,  reviving,  he 
professed  himself  glad ;  the  picture 
was  going  to  a  judge. 

"  It  is  not  much  money,"  said  he, 
"  but  the  man  has  spoken  words  that 
are  ten  thousand  pounds  to  me." 

He  returned  to  the  room ;  his  vis- 
itor, hat  in  hand,  was  about  to  go ;  a 
few  words  were  spoken  about  the  art 
of  painting,  this  led  to  a  conversation, 
and  then  to  a  short  discussion. 


148 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTONK. 


The  new-comer  soon  showed  Mr. 
Charles  Gatty  his  ignorance  of  facts. 

This  man  had  sat  quietly  before  a 
multitude  of  great  pictures,  new  and 
old,  in  England. 

He  cooled  down  Charles  Gatty, 
Esq.,  monopolist  of  nature  and  truth. 

He  quoted  to  him  thirty  painters  in 
Germany,  who  paint  every  stroke  of  a 
landscape  in  the  open  air,  and  forty 
in  various  nations  who  had  done  it  in 
times  past. 

"  You,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "  appear 
to  hang  on  the  skirts  of  a  certain 
clique,  who  handle  the  brush  well, 
but  draw  ill,  and  look  at  nature 
through  the  spectacles  of  certain  igno- 
rant painters  who  spoiled  canvas  four 
hundred  years  ago. 

"  Go  no  further  in  that  direction. 

"  Those  boys,  like  all  quacks,  have 
one  great  truth  which  they  disfigure 
with  more  than  one  falsehood. 

"  Hold  fast  their  truth,  which  is  a 
truth  the  world  has  always  possessed, 
though  its  practice  has  been  confined 
to  the  honest  and  laborious  few. 

"  Eschew  their  want  of  mind  and 
taste. 

"  Shrink  with  horror  from  that  pro- 
fane culte  de  laideur,  that '  love  of  the 
lop-sided,'  they  have  recovered  from 
the  foul  receptacles  of  decayed  art.'  " 

He  reminded  him  further,  that 
"  Art  is  not  imitation,  but  illusion  ; 
that  a  plumber  and  glazier  of  our  day 
and  a  medireval  painter  are  more 
alike  than  any  two  representatives  of 
general  styles  that  can  be  found  ;  and 
for  the  same  reason,  namely,  that  with 
each  of  these  art  is  in  its  infancy; 
these  two  sets  of  bunglers  have  not 
learned  how  to  produce  the  illusions 
of  art." 

To  all  this  he  added  a  few  words  of 
compliment  on  the  mind,  as  well  as 
mechanical  dexterity,  of  the  purchased 
picture,  bade  him  good  morning,  and 
glided  away  like  a  passing  sunbeam. 

"A  mother's  blessing  is  a  great 
thing  to  have,  and  to  deserve,"  said 
Mrs.  Gatty,  who  had  rejoined  her 
son. 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  Charles.     He 


could  not  help  being  struck  by  the 
coincidence. 

He  had  made  a  sacrifice  to  his 
mother,  and  in  a  few  hours  one  of  his 
troubles  had  melted  away. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections  ar- 
rived Mr.  Saunders  with  a  note. 

The  note  contained  a  check  for  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  with  these 
lines,  in  which  the  writer  excused 
himself  for  the  amendment :  "  I  am  a 
painter  myself,"  said  he,  "  and  it  is 
impossible  that  eighty  pounds  can 
remunerate  the  time  expended  on  this 
picture,  to  say  nothing  of  the  skill." 

We  have  treated  this  poor  boy's  pic- 
ture hitherto  with  just  contempt,  but 
now  that  it  is  gone  into  a  famous  collec- 
tion, mind,  we  always  admired  it ;  we 
always  said  so,  we  take  our  oath  we 
did  ;  if  we  have  hitherto  deferred  fram- 
ing it,  that  was  merely  because  it  was 
not  sold. 

MR.  GATTY'S  PICTURE,  AT  PRESENT 
IN  THE  COLLECTION  OF  LORD  IPS- 
DEN  ! 

There  was,  hundreds  of  years  ago, 
a  certain  Bishop  of  Durham,  who  used 
to  fight  in  person  against  the  Scotch, 
and  defeat  them.  When  he  was  not 
with  his  flock,  the  northern  wolves 
sometimes  scattered  it ;  but  when  the 
holy  father  was  there,  with  his  prayers 
and  his  battle-axe,  England  won  the 
day ! 

This  nettled  the  Scottish  king,  so  he 
penetrated  one  day,  with  a  large  band, 
as  far  as  Durham  itself,  and  for  a 
short  time  blocked  the  prelate  up  in 
his  stronghold.  This  was  the  period 
of  Mr.  Gatty's  picture. 

Whose  title  was  :  — 

"  Half  Church  of  God,  half  Tcwer 
against  the  Scot." 

In  the  background  was  the  cathe- 
dral, on  the  towers  of  which  paced  to 
and  fro  men  in  armor,  with  the  west- 
ern sun  glittering  thereon.  In  the 
centre,  a  horse  and  cart,  led  by  a  boy, 
were  carrying  a  sheaf  of  arrows,  tied 
with  a  straw  band.  In  part  of  the 
foreground  was  the  prelate,  in  a  half- 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


149 


suit  of  armor,  but  bareheaded ;  he 
was  turning  away  from  the  boy  to 
whom  his  sinking  hand  had  indicated 
his  way  into  the  holy  castle,  and  his 
benignant  glance  rested  on  a  child, 
whom  its  mother  was  holding  up  for 
his  benediction.  In  the  foreground 
the  afternoon  beams  sprinkled  gold  on 
a  long  grassy  slope,  corresponding  to 
the  elevation  on  which  the  cathedral 
stood,  separated  by  the  river  Wear 
from  the  group ;  and  these  calm  beau- 
ties of  Nature,  with  the  mother  and 
child,  were  the  peaceful  side  of  this 
twofold  story. 

Such  are  the  dry  details.  But  the 
soul  of  its  charm  no  pen  can  fling  on 
paper.  For  the  stately  cathedral  stood 
and  lived ;  the  little  leaves  slumbered 
yet  lived ;  and  the  story  floated  and 
lived,  in  the  potable  gold  of  summer 
afternoon. 

To  look  at  this  painted  poem  was 
to  feel  a  thrill  of  pleasure  in  bare  ex- 
istence ;  it  went  through  the  eyes, 
where  paintings  stop,  and  warmed  the 
depths  and  recesses  of  the  heart  with 
its  sunshine  and  its  glorious  air. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  WHAT  is  in  the  wind  this  dark 
night  ?  Six  Newhaven  boats  and 
twenty  boys  and  hobbledehoys,  hired 
by  the  Johnstones  at  half  a  crown 
each  for  a  night's  job." 

"  Secret  service  !  " 

"  What  is  it  for  1 " 

"  I  think  it  is  a  smuggling  lay," 
suggested  Flucker,  "  but  we  shall 
know  all  in  good  time." 

"  Smuggling  !  "  Their  counte- 
nances fell ;  they  had  hoped  for  some- 
thing more  nearly  approaching  the  il- 
legal." 

"  Maybe  she  has  fand  the  herrin'," 
said  a  ten-year-old. 

"  Haw !  haw !  haw !  "  went  the  oth- 
ers. "  She  find  the  herrin',  when 
there's  five  hundred  fishermen  after 
them  baith  sides  the  Firrth." 


The  youngster  was  discomfited. 

In  fact  the  expedition  bore  no  signs 
of  fishing. 

The  six  boats  sailed  at  sundown, 
led  by  Flucker :  he  brought  to  on  the 
south  side  of  Inch  Keith,  and  nothing 
happened  for  about  an  hour. 

Then  such  boys  as  were  awake  saw 
two  great  eyes  of  light  coming  up 
from  Granton  ;  rattle  went  the  chain 
cable,  and  Lord  Ipsden's  cutter  swung 
at  anchor  in  four  fathom  water. 

A  thousand  questions  to  Mucker. 

A  single  puff  of  tobacco-smoke  was 
his  answer. 

And  now  crept  up  a  single  eye  of 
light  from  Leith;  she  came  among 
the  boats ;  the  boys  recognized  a  cra- 
zy old  cutter  from  Leith  harbor,  with 
Christie  Johnstone  on  board. 

"  What  is  that  brown  heap  on  her 
deck  ?  " 

"  A  mountain  of  nets,  —  fifty  stout 
herring-nets." 

Tune  manifesto,  fides. 

A  yell  burst  from  all  the  boys. 

"  He 's  gaun  to  tak  us  to  Dunbar." 

"  Half  a  croown !  ye  're  no  blate." 

Christie  ordered  the  boats  alongside 
her  cutter,  and  five  nets  were  dropped 
into  each  boat,  six  into  Flucker's. 

The  depth  of  water  was  given  them, 
and  they  were  instructed  to  shoot  their 
nets  so  as  to  keep  a  fathom  and  a  half 
above  the  rocky  bottom. 

A  herring  net  is  simply  a  wall  of 
meshes  twelve  feet  deep,  fifty  feet 
long;  it  sinks  to  a  vertical  position 
by  the  weight  of  net  twine,  and  is 
kept  from  sinking  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea  by  bladders  or  corks.  These 
nets  are  tied  to  one  another,  and  paid 
out  at  the  stern  of  the  boat.  Boat  and 
nets  drift  with  the  tide  ;  if,  therefore, 
the  nets  touched  the  rocks  they  would 
be  torn  to  pieces,  and  the  fisherman 
ruined. 

And  this  saves  the  herring,  —  that 
fish  lies  hours  and  hours  at  the  very 
bottom  of  the  sea  like  a  stone,  and  the 
poor  fisherman  shall  drive  with  his 
nets  a  yard  or  two  over  a  square  mile 
of  fish,  and  not  catch  a  herring  tail ; 
on  the  other  hand,  if  they  rise  to  play 


150 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


for  five  minutes,  in  that  five  minutes 
they  shall  fill  seven  hundred  boats. 

At  nine  o'clock  all  the  boats  had 
shot  their  nets,  and  Christie  went 
alongside  his  Lordship's  cutter;  he 
asked  her  many  questions  about  her- 
ring fishery,  to  which  she  gave  clear 
answers,  derived  from  her  father,  who 
had  always  been  what  the  fishermen 
call  a  lucky  fisherman  ;  that  is,  he  had 
opened  his  eyes  and  judged  for  himself. 

Lord  Ipsden  then  gave  her  blue 
lights  to  distribute  among  the  boats, 
that  the  first  which  caught  herring 
might  signal  all  hands. 

This  was  done,  and  all  was  expec- 
tation. 

Eleven  o'clock  came, — no  signal 
from  any  boat. 

Christie  became  anxious  :  at  last 
she  went  round  to  the  boats  ;  found 
the  boys  all  asleep  except  the  baddish 
boy  ;  waked  them  up,  and  made  them 
all  haul  in  their  first  net.  The  nets 
came  in  as  black  as  ink,  no  sign  of  a 
herring. 

There  was  but  one  opinion ;  there 
•was  no  herring  at  Inch  Keith;  they 
had  not  been  there  this  seven  years. 

At  last,  Flucker,  to  whom  she  came 
in  turn,  told  her  he  was  going  into 
two  fathom  water,  where  he  would  let 
out  the  bladders  and  drop  the  nets  on 
their  cursed  backs. 

A  strong  remonstrance  was  made 
by  Christie,  but  the  baddish  boy  in- 
sisted that  he  had  an  equal  right  in 
all  her  nets,  and,  setting  his  sail,  he 
ran  into  shoal  water. 

Christie  began  to  be  sorrowful ;  in- 
stead of  making  money,  she  was  going 
to  throw  it  away,  and  the  neer-do-weel 
Flucker  would  tear  six  nets  from  the 
ropes. 

Flucker  hauled  down  his  sail,  and 
unsteppcd  his  mast  in  two  fathom 
water  ;  but  he  was  not  such  a  fool  as 
to  risk  his  six  nets  ;  he  devoted  one 
to  his  experiment,  and  did  it  well ; 
he  let  out  his  bladder  line  a  fathom,  | 
so  that  one  half  his  net  would  liter- 
ally be  higgledy-piggledy  with  the 
rocks,  unless  the  fish  were  there  en 
masse. 


No  long  time  was  required. 

In  five  minutes  he  began  to  haul  in 
the  net ;  first,  the  boys  hauled  in  the 
rope,  and  then  the  net  began  to  ap- 
proach the  surface.  Flucker  looked 
anxiously  down,  the  other  lads  in- 
credulously ;  suddenly  they  all  gave 
a  yell  of  triumph,  —  an  appearance  of 
silver  and  lightning  mixed  had  glanced 
up  from  the  bottom  ;  in  came  the  first 
two  yards  of  the  net,  —  there  were 
three  herrings  in  it.  These  three 
proved  Flucker's  point  as  well  as 
three  million. 

They  hauled  in  the  net.  Before 
they  had  a  quarter  of  it  in,  the  net 
came  up  to  the  surface,  and  the  sea 
was  alive  with  molten  silver.  The 
upper  half  of  the  net  was  empty,  but 
the  lower  half  was  one  solid  mass  of 
fish. 

The  boys  could  not  find  a  mesh, 
they  had  nothing  to  handle  but  fish. 

At  this  moment  the  easternmost 
boat  showed  a  blue  light. 

"  The  fish  are  rising,"  said  Flucker, 
"  we  '11  na  risk  nae  mair  nets." 

Soon  after  this  a  sort  of  song  was 
heard  from  the  boat  that  had  showed 
a  light.  Flucker,  who  had  got  his  net 
in,  ran  down  to  her,  and  found,  as  he 
suspected,  that  the  boys  had  not  pow- 
er to  draw  the  weight  of  fish  over  the 
gunwale. 

They  were  singing,  as  sailors  do, 
that  they  might  all  pull  together ;  he 
gave  them  two  of  his  crew,  and  ran 
down  to  his  own  skipper. 

The  said  skipper  gave  him  four  men. 

Another  blue  light ! 

Christie  and  her  crew  came  a  little 
nearer  the  boats,  and  shot  twelve  nets. 

The  yachtsmen  entered  the  sport 
with  zeal,  so  did  his  Lordship. 

The  boats  were  all  full  in  a  few  min- 
utes, and  nets  still  out. 

Then  Flucker  began  to  fear  some 
of  these  nets  would  sink  with  the 
weight  of  fish ;  for  the  herring  die 
after  a  while  in  a  net,  and  a  dead  her- 
ring sinks. 

What  was  to  be  done  ? 

They  got  two  boats  alongside  the 
cntter,  and  unloaded  them  into  her  as 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


151 


well  as  they  could ;  but  before  they 
could  half  do  this  the  other  boats 
hailed  them. 

They  came  to  one  of  them ;  the 
boys  were  struggling  with  a  thing 
which  no  stranger  would  have 
dreamed  was  a  net. 

Imagine  a  white  sheet,  fifty  feet 
long,  varnished  with  red-hot  silver : 
there  were  twenty  barrels  in  this  sin- 
gle net.  By  dint  of  fresh  hands  they 
got  half  of  her  in,  and  then  the  mesh- 
es began  to  break ;  the  men  leaned 
over  the  gunwale,  and  put  their  arms 
round  blocks  and  masses  of  fish,  and 
so  flung  them  on  board ;  and  the  cod- 
fish and  dog-fish  snapped  them  almost 
out  of  the  men's  hands  like  'tigers. 

At  last,  they  came  to  a  net,  which 
was  a  double  wall  of  herring ;  it  had 
been  some  time  in  the  water,  and 
many  of  the  fish  were  dead;  they 
tried  their  best,  but  it  was  impracti- 
cable ;  they  laid  hold  of  the  solid  her- 
ring, and  when  they  lifted  up  a  hun- 
dred-weight clear  of  the  water,  away 
it  all  tore,  and  sank  back  again. 

They  were  obliged  to  cut  away  this 
net,  with  twenty  pounds  sterling  in 
her.  They  cut  away  the  twine  from 
the  head-ropes,  and  net  and  fish  went 
to  the  bottom. 

All  hands  were  now  about  the  cut- 
ter ;  Christie's  nets  were  all  strong 
and  new ;  they  had  been  some  time 
in  the  water  ;  in  hauling  them  up  her 
side,  quantities  of  fish  fell  out  of  the 
net  into  the  water,  but  there  were 
enough  left. 

She  averaged  twelve  barrels  a  net. 

Such  of  the  yawls  as  were  not  quite 
full  crept  between  the  cutter  and  the 
nets,  and  caught  all  they  wanted. 

The  projector  of  this  fortunate  spec- 
ulation suddenly  announced  that  she 
was  very  sleepy. 

Flucker  rolled  her  up  in  a  sail,  and 
she  slept  the  sleep  of  infancy  on  board 
her  cutter. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  her  cut- 
ter was  creeping  with  a  smart  breeze, 
about  two  miles  an  hour,  a  mile  from 
Newhaven  pier. 


The  yacht  had  returned  to  Gran- 
ton,  and  the  yawls,  very  low  in  the 
water,  were  creeping  along  like  snails, 
with  both  sails  set. 

The  news  was  in  Edinburgh  long 
before  they  landed. 

They  had  been  discerned  under 
Inch  Keith  at  the  dawn. 

And  the  manner  of  their  creeping 
along,  when  there  was  such  a  breeze, 
told  the  tale  at  once  to  the  keen,  ex- 
perienced eyes  that  are  sure  to  be 
scanning  the  sea. 

Donkey-carts  came  rattling  down 
from  the  capital. 

Merchants  came  pelting  down  to 
Newhaven  pier. 

The  whole  story  began  to  be  put 
together  by  bits,  and  comprehended. 

Old  Johnstone's  cleverness  was  re- 
called to  mind. 

The  few  fishermen  left  at  Newhaven 
were  ready  to  kill  themselves. 

Their  wives  were  ready  to  do  the 
same  good  office  for  La  Johnstone. 

Four  Irish  merchants  agreed  to 
work  together,  and  to  make  a  show 
of  competition,  the  better  to  keep  the 
price  down  within  bounds. 

It  was  hardly  fair,  four  men  against 
one  innocent  unguarded  female. 

But  this  is  a  wicked  world. 

Christie  landed,  and  proceeded  to 
her  own  house  ;  on  the  way  she  was 
met  by  Jean  Carnie,  who  debarrassed 
her  of  certain  wrappers,  and  a  hand- 
kerchief she  had  tied  round  her  head, 
and  informed  her  she  was  the  pride 
of  Newhaven. 

She  next  met  these  four  little  mer- 
chants, one  after  another. 

And  since  we  ought  to  dwell  as  lit- 
tle as  possible  upon  scenes  in  which 
unguarded  innocence  is  exposed  to 
artful  conspiracies,  we  will  put  a  page 
or  two  into  the  brute  form  of  dramatic 
dialogue,  and  so  sail  through  it  quick- 
er. 

1st  Merchant.  "Where  are  ye  go- 
ing, Meggie  ? " 

Christie  Johnstone.  "  If  onybody 
asks  ye,  say  ye  dinna  ken." 

1st  Mer.   "  Will  ye  sell  your  fish  ?  " 

Christie.   "  Suner  than  gie  them." 


152 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTONE. 


1st  Mer.  "  You  will  be  asking  fif- 
teen shillin'  the  cran." 

Christie.   "  And  ten  to  that." 
1st  Mer.   "  Good  morning." 
2rf  Mer.   "  Would  he  not  go  over 
fifteen  shillings  1     O,  the  thief  o'  the 
world  !  —  I  '11  give  sixteen." 

3d  Mer.   "  But  I'll  give  eighteen." 
2d  Mer.   "  More  fool  you  !     Take 
him  up,  my  girl." 

Christie.  "  Twenty-five  is  my  price 
the  day." 

3d  Mer.  "  Yon  will  keep  them  till 
Sunday  week  and  sell  their  bones." 

[Exeunt  the  three  Merchants. 
Enter  4th  Merchant. 

4th  Mer.  "  Are  your  fish  sold  ? 
I'll  give  sixteen  shillings." 

Christie.  "  I  'm  seeking  twenty- 
five,  an'  I  'm  offered  eighteen." 

4th  Mer.   "  Take  it."  [Exit. 

Christie.  "  They  hae  putten  their 
heads  thegithcr." 

.  Here  Flucker  came  up  to  her,  and 
told  her  there  was  a  Leith  merchant 
looking  for  her.  "  And,  Gusty,"  said 
he,  there 's  plenty  wind  getting  up, 
your  fish  will  be  sair  hashed ;  put 
them  off  your  hands,  I  rede  ye." 

Christie.  "  Ay,  lad  !  Flucker,  hide, 
an'  when  I  play  my  hand  sae,  ye  '11 
run  in  an'  cry,  '  Cirsty,  the  Irishman 
will  gic  ye  twenty-two  schellin  the 
cran.' " 

Flucker.  "  Ye  ken  mair  than  's  in 
the  catecheesm,  for  as  releegious  as  ye 
are." 

The  Leith  merchant  was  Mr.  Mil- 
ler, and  this  is  the  way  he  worked. 

Millf-r  (in  a  mellifluous  voice).  "Are 
ye  no  fatigued,  my  deear  ?  " 

Christie  (affecting fatigue).  "Indeed, 
sir,  and  I  am." 

Miller.  "  Shall  I  have  the  pleasure 
to  deal  wi'  ye  1  " 

Christie.  "If  it 's  your  pleasure, 
sir.  I'm  seekin'  twenty-five  schel- 
lin." 

Miller  (pretending  not  to  hear).  "  As 
yon  are  a  beginner,  I  must  offer  fair ; 
twenty  schellin  you  shall  have,  and 
that 's  three  shillings  above  Dunbar." 

Christie.      "  Wad  ye  even  carted 


herrin  with  my  fish  caller  fra'  the  sea? 
and  Dunbur,  —  0  fine  !  ye  ken  there  's 
nae  herrin  at  Dunbar  the  morn  ;  this 
is  the  Dunbar  schule  that  slipped 
westward  :  I  'm  the  mairket,  ye  '11 
hae  to  buy  o'  me  or  gang  to  your 
bed  "  (here  she  signalled  to  Flucker). 
"  I  '11  no  be  oot  o'  mine  lang." 

Enter  Flucker  hastily,  crying :  "  Cirs- 
ty, the  Irishman  will  gie  ye  twenty- 
two  schellin." 

"  I  '11  no  tak  it,"  said  Christie. 

"  They  are  keen  to  hae  them,"  said 
Flucker  ;  and  hastily  retired,  as  if  to 
treat  further  with  the  small  mer- 
chants. 

On  this,  Mr.  Miller,  pretending  to 
make  for  Leith,  said,  carelessly, 
"  Twenty-three  shillings,  or  they  are 
not  for  me." 

"  Tak  the  cutter's  freight  at  a  hun- 
dre'  cran,  an'  I  'm  no  caring,"  said 
Christie. 

"  They  are  mine !  "  said  Mr.  Miller, 
very  sharply.  "  How  much  shall  I 
give  you  the  day  ?  " 

"  Auchty  pund,  sir,  if  yon  please,  — 
the  lave  when  you  like;  I  ken  ye, 
Mr.  Miller." 

Whilst  counting  her  the  notes,  the 
purchaser  said  slyly  to  her  :  — 

"  There 's  more  than  a  hundred 
cran  in  the  cutter,  my  woman." 

"  A  little,  sir,"  replied  the  vendor ; 
"  but,  ere  I  could  count  them  till  ye 
by  baskets,  they  would  lose  seven  or 
eight  cran  in  book,*  your  gain,  my 
loss." 

"  You  are  a  vara  intelligent  young 
person,"  said  Mr.  Miller,  gravely. 

"  Ye  had  measured  them  wi'  your 
walking-stick,  sir;  there's  just  ae 
scale  ye  didna  wipe  off,  though  ye  are 
a  care'fu'  mon,  Mr.  Miller ;  sae  I  laid 
the  bait  for  ye  an'  fine  ye  took  it." 

Miller  took  out  his  snuff-box,  and 
tapping  it  said  :  — 

"  Will  ye  go  into  partnership  with 
me,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sir  !  "  was  the  reply.  "  When 
I  'm  aulder  an'  ye  're  younger." 

At  this  moment  the  four  merchants, 
believing  it  useless  to  disguise  their 
*Bulk. 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


153 


co-operation,  returned  to  see  what 
could  be  done. 

"  We  shall  give  you  a  guinea  a 
barrel." 

"  Why,  yc  offered  her  twenty-two 
shillings  before." 

"  That  we  never  did,  Mr.  Miller." 

"  Haw  !  haw  !  "  went  Flucker. 

Christie  looked  down  and  blushed. 

Eyes  met  eyes,  and  without  a  word 
spoken  all  was  comprehended  and  si- 
lently approved.  There  was  no  non- 
sense uttered  about  morality  in  con- 
nection with  dealing. 

Mr.  Miller  took  an  enormous  pinch 
of  snuff,  and  drew  for  the  benefit  of 
all  present  the  following  inference  :  — 

MR.  MILLER'S  APOTHEGM. 

•'   ir'r 

"Friends  and  neighbors!  when  a 
man's  heed  is  gray  with  age  and 
thoucht  (pause),  he  's  just  fit  to  go 
to  schule  to  a  young  lass  o'  twenty." 

There  was  a  certain  middle-aged 
fishwife,  called  Beeny  Listen,  a  tenant 
of  Christie  Johnstone's  ;  she  had  not 
paid  her  rent  for  some  time,  and  she 
had  not  been  pressed  for  it ;  whether 
this,  or  the  whiskey  she  was  in  the  habit 
of  taking,  rankled  in  her  mind,  certain 
it  is  she  had  always  an  ill  word  for  her 
landlady. 

She  now  met  her,  envied  her  suc- 
cess, and  called  out  in  a  coarse 
tone :  — 

"  0,  ye  're  a  gallant  quean  ;  ye  '11 
be  waur  than  ever  the  noo." 

"  What 's  wrang,  if  ye  please  ?  " 
said  the  Johnstone,  sharply. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  see  two  fallow 
bucks  commence  a  duel  ? 

They  strut  round,  eight  yards  apart, 
tails  up,  look  carefully  another  way  to 
make  the  other  think  it  all  means 
nothing,  and,  being  both  equally  sly, 
their  horns  come  together  as  if  by 
concert. 

Even  so  commenced  this  duel  of 
tongues  between  these  two  heroines. 

Beeny  Listen,  looking  at  everybody 
but  Christie,  addressed  the  natives 
who  were  congregating  thus  :  — 

"  Did  ever  ye  hear  o'  a  decent  lass 
taking  the  herrin'  oot  o'  the  men's 
7* 


mooths?  —  is  yon  a  woman's  pairt, 
I  'm  asking  ye  ?  " 

On  this,  Christie,  looking  carefully 
at  all  the  others  except  Beeny,  in- 
quired with  an  air  of  simple  curiosi- 
ty :— 

"  Can  onybody  tell  me  wha  Listen 
Carnie's  drunken  wife  is  speakin'  till  ? 
no  to  ony  decent  lass,  though.  Na ! 
ye  ken  she  wad  na  hae  th'  impu- 
dence !  " 

"  O,  ye  ken  fine  I  'm  speakin'  till 
yoursel'." 

Here  the  horns  clashed  together. 

"  To  me,  woman  ?  "  (with  admirably 
acted  surprise.)  "  Oo,  ay!  it  will  be 
for  the  twa  years'  rent  you  're  awin 
me.  Giest ! " 

Beeny  Listen.  "  Ye  're  just  the  im- 
pudentest  girrl  i'  the  toon,  an'  ye  hae 
proved  it  the  day  "  (her  arms  akimbo). 

Christie  (arms  akimbo).  "Me,  im- 
pudent ?  how  daur  ye  speak  against 
my  charackter,  that 's  kenned  for  de- 
cency o'  baith  sides  the  Firrth." 

Beeny  (contemptuously).  "O,  ye 're 
sly  enough  to  beguile  the  men,  but  we 
ken  ye." 

Christie.  "  I  'm  no  sly,  and"  (draw- 
ing near  and  hissing  the  words)  "I  'in  no 
like  the  woman  Jean  an'  I  saw  in  Rose 
Street,  dead  drunk  on  the  causeway, 
while  her  mon  was  working  for  her  at 
sea.  If  ye  're  no  ben  your  hoose  in 
ae  minute,  I  '11  say  that  will  gar  Lis- 
ton  Cairnie  fling  ye  ower  the  pier-head, 
ye  fool-moothed  drunken  leear  — 
Scairt!"* 

If  my  reader  has  seen  and  heard 
Mademoiselle  Rachel  utter  her  famous 
Sortez,  in  "  Virginie,"  he  knows  ex- 
actly with  what  a  gesture  and  tone 
the  Johnstone  uttered  this  word. 

Beeny  (in  a  voice  of  whining  sur- 
prise). "  Hech  !  what  a  spite  Flucker 
Johnstone's  dochter  has  taen  against 
us." 

Christie.    "  Scairt !  " 

Beenij  (in  a  coaxing  voice,  and  mov- 
ing a  step).  "Aweel!  what's  a'  your 
paession,  my  boenny  woman  1  " 

Christie.    "  Scairt !  " 

*  A  local  word ;  a  corruptiou  from  the 
French  Sortez. 


154 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


Beeny  retired  before  the  thunder 
and  lightning  of  indignant  virtue. 

Then  all  the  fishboys  struck  up  a 
dismal  chant  of  victory. 

"  Yoo-hoo  —  Gusty 's  won  the  day 

—  Beeny 's  scairtiV  going  up  on  the 
last  syllable. 

Christie  moved  slowly  away  towards 
her  own  house,  but  before  she  could 
reach  the  door  she  began  to  whimper, 

—  little  fool. 

Thereat  chorus  of  young  Athenians 
chanted :  — 

"  Yu-hoo  !  come  back,  Beeny,  ye '11 
maybe  win  yet.  Gusty  's  away  gree- 
tin  "  (going  up  on  the  last  syllable). 

"  I  'm  no  greetin,  ye  rude  bairns," 
said  Christie,  bursting  into  tears,  and 
retiring  as  soon  as  she  had  effected 
that  proof  of  her  philosophy. 

It  was  about  four  hours  later; 
Christie  had  snatched  some  repose. 
The  wind,  as  Flucker  prognosticated, 
had  grown  into  a  very  heavy  gale, 
and  the  Firth  was  brown  and  boil- 
ing. 

Suddenly  a  clamor  was  heard  on 
the  shore,  and  soon  after  a  fishwife 
made  her  appearance,  with  rather  a 
singular  burden. 

Her  husband,  ladies ;  rien  que  cela. 

She  had  him  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck  ;  he  was  dos-a-dos,  with  his  boot- 
ed legs  kicking  in  the  air,  and  his  fists 
making  warlike  but  idle  demonstra- 
tions, and  his  mouth  uttering  ineffect- 
ual bad  language. 

This  worthy  had  been  called  a  cow- 
ard by  Sandy  Li.ston,  and  being  about 
to  fight  with  him,  and  get  thrashed, 
his  wife  had  whipped  him  up,  and 
carried  him  away ;  she  now  flung 
him  down,  at  some  risk  of  his  equilib- 
rium. 

"  Ye  are  not  fit  to  feicht  wi'  Sandy 
Listen,"  said  she ;  "  if  ye  are  for  feicht- 
in,  here  'a  for  ye." 

As  a  comment  to  this  proposal,  she 
tucked  up  the  sleeves  of  her  short 
gown.  He  tried  to  run  by  her ;  she 
caught  him  by  the  bosom,  and  gave 
him  a  violent  push,  that  sent  him  sev- 
eral paces  backwards  ;  he  looked  half 
fierce,  half  astounded;  ere  he  could 


quite  recover  himself,  his  little  servant 
forced  a  pipe  into  his  hand,  and  he 
smoked  contented  and  peaceable. 

Before  tobacco  the  evil  passions  fall, 
they  tell  me. 

The  cause  of  this  quarrel  soon  ex- 
plained itself ;  up  came  Sandy  Listen, 
cursing  and  swearing. 

"  What !  ye  hae  gotten  till  your 
wife's ;  that 's  the  place  for  ye ;  —  to 
say  there  's  a  brig  in  distress,  and  ye  '11 
let  her  go  on  the  rocks  under  your 
noses  :  but  what  are  ye  afraid  o'  ? 
there  's  na  danger?  " 

"  Nae  danger  !  "  said  one  of  the  re- 
proached, "  are  ye  fou  ?  " 

"  Ye  are  fou  wi'  fear  yoursel' ;  of 
a'  the  beasts  that  crawl  the  airth,  a 
cooward  is  the  ugliest,  I  think." 

"  The  wifes  will  no  let  us,"  said 
one,  sulkily. 

"  It 's  the  woman  in  your  hairts 
that  keeps  ye,"  roared  Sandy,  hoarse- 
ly ;  "  curse  ye,  ye  are  sure  to  dee  ane 

day,  and  ye  are  sure  to  be !  "  (a 

past  participle)  "  soon  or  late,  what 
signifies  when  ?  Oh  !  curse  the  hour 
ever  I  was  born  amang  sic  a  cooard- 
ly  crew."  ( Gun  at  sea. ) 

"There!" 

"  She  speaks  till  ye,  hersel' ;  she 
cries  for  maircy ;  to  think  that,  of  a' 
that  hear  ye  cry,  Alexander  Listen  is 
the  only  mon  mon  enough  to  answer." 
(Gun.) 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Alexander 
Liston,"  said  a  clear,  smart  voice, 
whose  owner  had  mingled  unobserved 
with  the  throng ;  "  there  are  always 
men  to  .answer  such  occasions  ;  now, 
my  lads,  your  boats  have  plenty  of 
beam,  and,  well  handled,  should  live 
in  any  sea  ;  who  volunteers  with  Al- 
exander Liston  and  me  ?  " 

The  speaker  was  Lord  Ipsden. 

The  fishwives  of  Newhaven,  more 
accustomed  to  measure  men  than  poor 
little  Lady  Barbara  Sinclair,  saw  in 
this  man  what  in  point  of  fact  he 
was,  —  a  cool,  daring  devil,  than  whom 
none  more  likely  to  lead  men  into 
mortal  danger,  or  pull  them  through 
it,  for  that  matter. 

They  recognized  their  natural  cnc- 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


155 


my,  and  collected  together  against  him, 
like  hens  at  the  sight  of  a  hawk. 

"  And  would  you  really  entice  our 
men  till  their  death  ?  " 

"  My  life  's  worth  as  much  as  theirs, 
I  suppose." 

"  Nac !  your  life  !  it 's  na  worth  a 
button  ;  when  you  dee,  your  next  kin 
will  dance,  and  wha  '11  greet  ?  but  our 
men  hao  wife  and  bairns  to  look  till." 
(  Gun  at  sea. ) 

"  Ah !  I  did  n't  look  at  it  in  that 
light,"  said  Lord  Ipsden.  He  then 
demanded  paper  and  ink;  Christie 
Johnstone,  who  had  come  out  of  her 
house,  supplied  it  from  her  treasures, 
and  this  cool  hand  actually  began  to 
convey  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
pounds  away,  upon  a  sheet  of  paper 
blowing  in  the  wind ;  when  he  had 
named  his  residuary  legatee,  and  dis- 
posed of  certain  large  bequests,  he 
came  to  the  point,  — 

"  Christie  Johnstone,  what  can  these 
people  live  on  ?  two  hundred  a  year  ? 
living  is  cheap  here,  —  confound  the 
wind !  " 

"  Twa  hundred  ?  Fifty !  Vile 
Count." 

"  Don't  call  me  Vile  Count.  I  am 
Ipsden,  and  my  name  's  Richard. 
Now,  then,  be  smart  with  your  names." 

Three  men  stepped  forward,  gave 
their  names,  had  their  widows  provided 
for,  and  went  for  their  sou'westers, 
&c. 

"  Stay,"  said  Lord  Ipsden,  writing. 
"  To  Christina  Johnstone,  out  of  re- 
spect for  her  character,  one  thousand 
pounds." 

"  Richard !  dinna  gang,"  cried 
Christie,  "  O,  dinna  gang,  dinna  gang, 
dinna  gang  ;  it 's  no  your  business." 

"  Will  you  lend  me  your  papa's 
Flushing  jacket  and  sou'wester,  my 
dear  ?  If  I  was  sure  to  be  drowned, 
I M  go  !  " 

Christie  ran  in  for  them. 

In  the  mean  time,  discomposed  by 
the  wind,  and  by  feelings  whose  exist- 
ence neither  he,  nor  I,  nor  any  one 
suspected,  Saunders,  after  a  sore  strug- 
gle between  the  frail  man  and  the  per- 
fect domestic,  blurted  out :  — 


"  My  Lord,  I  beg  your  Lordship's 
pardon,  but  it  blows  tempestuous." 

"  That  is  why  the  brig  wants  us," 
was  the  reply. 

"  My  Lord,  I  beg  your  Lordship's 
pardon,"  whimpered  Saunders. 

"  But,  O  my  Lord,  don't  go  ;  it 's 
all  very  well  for  fishermen  to  be 
drowned  ;  it  is  their  business,  but  not 
yours,  my  Lord." 

"  Saunders,  help  me  on  with  this 
coat." 

Christie  had  brought  it. 

"  Yes,  my  Lord,"  said  Saunders, 
briskly,  his  second  nature  reviving. 

His  Lordship,  whilst  putting  on  the 
coat  and  hat,  undertook  to  cool  Mr. 
Saunders's  aristocratic  prejudices. 

"  Should  Alexander  Liston  and  I  bo 
drowned,"  said  he,  coolly,  "  when  our 
bones  come  ashore,  you  will  not  know 
which  are  the  fisherman's,  and  which 
the  Viscount's."  So  saying,  he  joined 
the  enterprise. 

"  I  shall  pray  for  ye,  lad,"  said 
Christie  Johnstone,  and  she  retired  for 
that  purpose. 

Saunders,  with  a  heavy  heart,  to  the 
nearest  tavern,  to  prepare  an  account 
of  what  he  called  '  Heroism  in  High 
Life,"  large  letters,  and  the  usual  signs 
of  great  astonishment !!!!!!  for  the 
"  Polytechnic  Magazine." 

The  commander  of  the  distressed 
vessel  had  been  penny-wise.  He  had 
declined  a  pilot  off  the  Isle  of  May, 
trusting  to  fall  in  with  one  close  to  the 
port  of  Leith  ;  but  a  heavy  gale  and 
fog  had  come  on  ;  he  knew  himself  in 
the  vicinity  of  dangerous  rocks  ;  and, 
to  make  matters  worse,  his  ship,  old 
and  sore  battered  by  a  long  and 
stormy  voyage,  was  leaky;  and,  unless 
a  pilot  came  alongside,  his  fate  would 
be,  either  to  founder,  or  run  upon  the 
rocks,  where  he  must  expect  to  go  to 
pieces  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

The  Ncwhaven  boat  lay  in  com- 
paratively smooth  water,  on  the  lee 
side  of  the  pier. 

Our  adventurers  got  into  her, 
stepped  the  mast,  set  a  small  sail,  and 
ran  out !  Sandy  Liston  held  the  sheet, 
passed  once  round  the  belayiug-pin, 


156 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


and  whenever  a  larger  wave  than 
usual  came  at  them,  he  slacked  the 
sheet,  and  the  boat,  losing  her  way, 
rose  gently,  like  a  cork,  upon  seas  that 
had  seemed  about  to  swallow  her. 

But  seen  from  the  shore  it  was 
enough  to  make  the  most  experi- 
enced wince ;  so  completely  was  this 
wooden  shell  lost  to  sight,  as  she  de- 
scended from  a  wave,  that  each  time 
her  reappearance  seemed  a  return 
from  the  dead. 

The  weather  was  misty,  —  the  boat 
was  soon  lost  sight  of;  the  story  re- 
mains ashore. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

IT  was  an  hour  later ;  the  natives  of 
the  New  Town  had  left  the  pier,  and 
were  about  their  own  doors,  when 
three  Buckhaven  fishermen  came 
slowly  up  from  the  pier ;  these  men 
had  arrived  in  one  of  their  large  fish- 
ing-boats, which  defy  all  weather. 

The  men  came  slowly  up ;  their 
petticoat  trousers  were  drenched,  and 
their  neck  -  handkerchiefs  and  hair 
were  wet  with  spray. 

At  the  foot  of  the  New  Town  they 
stood  still  and  whispered  to  each 
other. 

There  was  something  about  these 
men  that  drew  the  eye  of  Newhaven 
upon  them. 

In  the  first  place  a  Buckhaven  man 
rarely  communicates  with  natives  of 
Newhaven,  except  at  the  pier,  where 
he  brings  in  his  cod  and  ling  from  the 
deep  sea,  flings  them  out  like  stones, 
and  sells  them  to  the  fishwives ;  then 
up  sail  and  away  for  Fifeshire. 

But  these  men  evidently  came 
ashore  to  speak  to  some  one  in  the 
town. 

They  whispered  together ;  some- 
thing appeared  to  be  proposed  and 
demurred  to  ;  but  at  last  two  went 
slowly  back  towards  the  pier,  arid  the 
eldest  remained,  with  a  fisherman's 
long  mackintosh  coat  in  his  hand 
which  the  others  had  given  him  as 
they  left  him. 


"With  this  in  his  hand,  the  Buckha- 
ven fisherman  stood  in  an  irresolute 
posture  ;  he  looked  down,  and  seemed 
to  ask  himself  what  course  he  should 
take. 

"  What 's  wrang  ?  "  said  Jean  Car- 
nie,  who,  with  her  neighbors,  had  ob- 
served the  men ;  "  I  wish  yon  man 
may  na  hae  ill  news." 

"  What  ill  news  wad  he  hae  ?  "  re- 
plied another. 

"  Are  ony  freends  of  Listen  Carnie 
here  ?  "  said  the  fisherman. 

"  The  wife  's  awa'  to  Granton, 
Beeny  Liston  they  ca'  her,  — there  'a 
his  house,"  added  Jean,  pointing  up 
the  row. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  fisherman,  "  I  ken 
he  lived  there." 

"  Lived  there !  "  cried  Christie 
Johnstone  :  "  O,  what 's  this  1 " 

"  Freends,"  said  the  man,  gravely, 
"  his  boat  is  driving  keel  uppermost 
in  Kircauldy  Bay  ;  —  we  passed  her 
near  enough  to  read  the  name  upon 
her." 

"But  the  men  -will  have  won  to 
shore,  please  God  ?  " 

The  fisherman  shook  his  head. 
"  She  '11  hae  coupit  a  mile  wast 
Inch  Keith,  an'  the  tide  rinning  aff  the 
island  an'  a  heavy  sea  gaun.  This  is 
a'  Newhaven  we  '11  see  of  them  "  (hold- 
ing up  the  coat)  "  till  they  rise  to  the 
top  in  three  weeks'  time." 

The  man  then  took  the  coat,  which 
was  now  seen  to  be  drenched  with 
water,  and  hung  it  up  on  a  line  not 
very  far  from  its  unfortunate  owner's 
house  :  then,  in  the  same  grave  and 
subdued  tone  in  which  he  had  spoken 
all  along,  he  said,  "  We  are  sorry  to 
bring  siccan  a  tale  into  your  toon," 
and  slowly  moved  off  to  rejoin  his 
comrades,  who  had  waited  for  him  at 
no  great  distance.  They  then  passed 
through  the  Old  Town,  and  ift  five 
minutes  the  calamity  was  known  to 
the  whole  place. 

After  the  first  stupor,  the  people  in 
the  New  Town  collected  into  knots, 
and  lamented  their  hazardous  calling, 
and  feared  for  the  lives  of  those  that 
had  just  put  to  sea  in  this  fatal  gale 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE.. 


157 


for  the  rescue  of  strangers,  and  the 
older  ones  failed   not  to  match  thi 
present    sorrow  with    others   within 
their  recollection. 

In  the  middle  of  this,  Flucker 
Johnstone  came  hastily  in  from  the 
Old  Town,  and  told  them  he  had 
seen  the  wife,  Beeny  Liston,  coming 
through  from  Granton. 

The  sympathy  of  all  was  instantly 
turned  in  this  direction. 

"  She  would  hear  the  news." 
-  "  It  would  fall  on  her  like  a  thun- 
der-clap." 

"  What  would  become  of  her  1 " 

Every  eye  was  strained  towards 
the  Old  Town,  and  soon  the  poor  wo- 
man was  seen  about  to  emerge  from 
it ;  but  she  was  walking  in  her  usual 
way,  and  they  felt  she  could  not  carry 
her  person  so  if  she  knew. 

At  the  last  house  she  was  seen  to 
stop  and  speak  to  a  fisherman  and  his 
wife  that  stood  at  their  own  door. 

"  They  are  telling  her,"  was  then 
the  cry. 

Beeny  Liston  then  proceeded  on 
her  way. 

Every  eye  was  strained. 

No  !  they  had  not  told  her. 

She  came  gayly  on,  the  unconscious 
object  of  every  eye  and  every  heart. 

The  hands  of  this  people  were  hard, 
and  their  tongues  rude,  but  they 
shrunk  from  telling  this  poor  woman 
of  her  bereavement,  —  they  thought 
it  kinder  she  should  know  it  under 
her  own  roof,  from  her  friends  or 
neighbors,  than  from  comparative 
strangers. 

She  drew  near  her  own  door. 

And  now  a  knot  collected  round 
Christie  Johnstone,  and  urged  her  to 
undertake  the  sad  task. 

"  You  that  speak  sa  learned,  Chris- 
tie, ye  should  tell  her  ;  we  daur  na." 

"  How  can  I  tell  her  ?  "  said  Chris- 
tie, turning  pale.  "  How  will  I  tell 
her  ?  I  'se  try." 

She  took  one  trembling  step  to 
meet  the  woman. 

Beeny's  eye  fell  upon  her. 

"  Ay  !  here 's  the  Queen  o'  New- 
haven,"  cried  she,  in  a  loud  and  rather 


i  coarse  voice.  "  The  men  will  hae  ta 
leave  the  place  now  y'  are  turned  fish- 
erman, I  daur  say." 

"  O,  dinna  fleicht  on  me !  dinna 
fleicht  on  me !  "  cried  Christie,  trem- 
bling. 

"  Maircy  on  us,"  said  the  other, 
"  auld  Flucker  Johnstone's  dochter 
turned  humble.  What  next  ?  " 

"  I  'm  vexed  for  speaking  back  till 
ye  the  morn,"  faltered  Christie. 

"  Hett,"  said  the  woman,  carelessly, 
"  let  yon  flea  stick  i'  the  wa'.  I  fancy 
I  began  on  ye.  Aweel,  Cirsty,"  said 
she,  falling  into  a  friendlier  tone ; 
"  it 's  the  place  we  live  in  spoils  us,  — 
Newhaven  's  an  impudent  toon,  as 
sure  as  deeth. 

"  I  passed  through  the  Auld  Toon 
the  n'oo,  — a  place  I  never  speak  in  ; 
an'  if  they  did  na  glower  at  me  as  I 
had  been  a  strange  beast. 

"  They  cam'  to  their  very  doors  to 
glower  at  me ;  if  ye  '11  believe  me,  I 
thoucht  shame. 

"  At  the  hinder  end  my  paassion  got 
up,  and  I  faced  a  wife  East-by,  and  I 
said,  '  What  gars  ye  glower  at  me 
that  way,  ye  ignorant  woman  ?  '  ye 
would  na  think  it,  she  answered  like 
honey  itsel' :  '  I  'm  askin'  your  paarr- 
don,'  says  she ;  and  her  mon  by  her 
side  said,  '  Gang  hame  to  your  ain 
hoose,  my  woman,  and  Gude  help  ye, 
and  help  us  a'  at  our  need,'  the  decent 
mon.  '  It 's  just  there  I  'm  for,'  said 
I,  '  to  get  my  mon  his  breakfast.'  " 

All  who  heard  her  drew  their 
breath  with  difficulty. 

The  woman  then  made  for  her  own 
house,  but  in  going  up  the  street  she 
passed  the  wet  coat  hanging  on  the 
line. 

She  stopped  directly. 

They  all  trembled,  —  they  had  for- 
gotten the  coat,  —  it  was  all  over ;  the 
coat  would  tell  the  tale. 

"  Aweel,"  said  she,  "  I  could  sweer 
that 's  Liston  Carnie's  coat,  a  droukit 
wi'  the  rain  "  ;  then  she  looked  again 
at  it,  and  added,  slowly,  "if  I  did  na 
<en  he  has  his  away  wi'  him  at  the 
piloting."  And  in  another  moment 
she  was  in  her  own  house,  leaving 


158 


CHRISTIE  JOHKSTONE. 


them  all  standing  there  half  stupe- 
fied. 

Christie  had  indeed  endeavored  to 
speak,  but  her  tongue  had  eleven  to 
her  mouth. 

Whilst  they  stood  looking  at  one 
another,  and  at  Beeny  Liston's  door, 
a  voice  that  seemed  incredibly  rough, 
loud,  and  harsh  jarred  upon  them ; 
it  was  Sandy  Listen,  who  came  in 
from  Leith,  shouting  :  — 

"  Fifty  pounds  for  salvage,  lasses  ! 
is  na  thaat  better  than  staying  cooard- 
like  aside  the  women  ?  " 

"  Whisht !  whisht !  "  cried  Christie. 
"  We  are  in  heavy  sorrow  ;  puir  Lis- 
ton  Cairnie  and  his  son  Willy  lie  deed 
at  the  bottom  o'  the  Firrth." 

"  Gudc  help  us  !  "  said  Sandy,  and 
his  voice  sank. 

"  An',  O  Sandy,  the  wife  does  na 
ken,  and  it's  hairt-breaking  to  see 
her,  and  hear  her ;  we  canna  get  her 
tell't;  ye 're  the  auldest  mon  here; 
ye  '11  tell  her,  will  ye  no,  Sandy  ?  " 

"  No,  me,  that  I  will  not !  " 

"  O  yes ;  ye  are  kenned  for  your 
Btoot  heart,  an'  coorage  ;  ye  come 
fra'  facing  the  sea  an*  wind  in  a  bit 
yawl " 

"  The  sea  and  the  wind,"  cried  he, 

contemptuously ;  "  they  be ,  I  'm 

used  wi'  them ;  but  to  look  a  woman 
i'  the  face,  an'  tell  her  her  mon  and 
her  son  are  drowned  since  yestreen,  I 
hae  na  coorage  for  that." 

All  further  debate  was  cut  short  by 
the  entrance  of  one  who  came  ex- 
pressly to  discharge  the  sad  duty  all 
had  found  so  difficult.  It  was  the 
Presbyterian  clergyman  of  the  place  ; 
he  waved  them  back.  "I  know,  I 
know,"  said  he,  solemnly. 

"  Where  is  the  wife  ?  " 

She  came  out  of  her  house  at  this 
moment,  as  it  happened,  to  purchase 
something  at  Drysale's  shop,  which 
was  opposite. 

"  Beeny,"  said  the  clergyman,  "  I 
have  sorrowful  tidings." 

"  Tell  me  them,  sir,"  said  she,  un- 
moved. "  Is  it  a  deeth  ?  "  added  she, 
quietly. 

"  It  is  !  —  death,  sudden  and  terri- 


ble; in  your  own  house  I  must  tell  it 
you  —  (and  may  God  show  me  how 
to  break  it  to  her)." 

He  entered  her  house. 

"  Aweel,"  said  the  woman  to  the 
others,  "it  maun  be  some  far-awa cous- 
in, or  the  like,  for  Listen  an'  me  hae 
nae  near  freends.  Meg,  ye  idle  hizzy," 
screamed  she  to  her  servant,  who  was 
one  of  the  spectators,  "  your  pat  is  no. 
on  yet ;  div  ye  think  the  men  will  no 
be  hungry  when  they  come  in  fra'  the 
sea  ?  " 

"  They  will  never  hunger  nor  thirst 
ony  mair,"  said  Jean,  solemnly,  as 
the  bereaved  woman  entered  her  own 
door. 

There  ensued  a  listless  and  fearful 
silence. 

Every  moment  some  sign  of  bitter 
sorrow  was  expected  to  break  forth 
from  the  house,  but  none  came  ;  and 
amidst  the  expectation  and  silence  the 
waves  dashed  louder  and  louder,  as  it 
seemed,  against  the  dike,  conscious 
of  what  they  had  done. 

At  last,  in  a  moment,  a  cry  of  ago- 
ny arose,  so  terrible  that  all  who 
heard  it  trembled,  and  more  than  one 
woman  shrieked  in  return,  and  fled 
from  the  door;  at  which,  the  next 
moment,  the  clergyman  stood  alone, 
collected,  but  pale,  and  beckoned. 
Several  women  advanced. 

"  One  woman,"  said  he. 

Jean  Carnie  was  admitted;  and 
after  a  while  returned. 

"  She  is  come  to  hersel',"  whis- 
pered she ;  "  I  am  no  weel  mysel'." 
And  she  passed  into  her  own  house. 

Then  Flucker  crept  to  the  door  to 
see. 

"  O,  dinna  spy  on  her,"  cried 
Christie. 

"O  yes,  Flucker,"  said  many 
voices. 

"  He  is  kneelin',"  said  Flucker. 
"  He  has  her  hand,  to  gar  her  kneel 
tae,  —  she  winna,  —  she  does  na  sec 
him,  nor  hear  him ;  he  will  hae  her. 
He  has  won  her  to  kneel,  —  he  is 
prayin,  an'  greetin  aside  her.  I  can- 
na see  noo,  my  een  's  blinded." 

"  He 's  a  gude  mon,"  said  Christie, 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONS. 


159 


"  0,  what  wad  we  do  without  the 
ministers  ?  " 

Sandy  Listen  had  been  leaning  sor- 
rowfully against  the  wall  of  the  next 
house  ;  he  now  broke  out :  — 

"  An  auld  shipmate  at  the  whale- 
fishing  !  !  !  an'  noow  we  '11  never  lift 
the  dredging  sang  thegither  again,  in 
yon  dirty  detch  that 's  droowncd  him  ; 
I  maun  hae  whiskey,  an'  forget  it  a'." 

He  made  for  the  spirit-shop  like  a 
madman ;  but  ere  he  could  reach  the 
door  a  hand  was  laid  on  him  like  a 
vice.  Christie  Johnstone  had  literally 
sprung  on  him.  She  hated  this  hor- 
rible vice,  —  had  often  checked  him  ; 
and  now  it  seemed  so  awful  a  moment 
for  such  a  sin,  that  she  forgot  the  wild 
and  savage  nature  of  the  man,  who 
had  struck  his  own  sister,  and  serious- 
ly hurt  her,  but  a  month  before,  — 
she  saw  nothing  but  the  vice  and  its 
victim,  and  she  seized  him  by  the 
collar,  with  a  grasp  from  which  he 
in  vain  attempted  to  shake  himself 
loose. 

"  No  !  ye  'II  no  gang  there  at  siccan 
a  time." 

"  Hands  off,  ye  daft  jaud,"  roared 
he,  "  or  there  '11  be  another  deeth  i' 
the  toon." 

At  the  noise  Jean  Carnie  ran  in. 

"  Let  the  ruffian  go,"  cried  she,  in 
dismay.  "O  Christie,  dinna  put  your 
hand  on  a  lion's  mane." 

"  Yes,  I  '11  put  my  hand  on  his 
mane,  ere  I'll  let  him  mak  a  beast 
o'  himselV 

"  Sandy,  if  ye  hurt  her,  I  '11  find 
twenty  lads  that  will  lay  ye  deed  at 
her  feet." 

"  Haudyour  whisht,"  said  Christie, 
very  sharply,  "  he  's  no  to  be  threet- 
ened." 

Sandy  Liston,  black  and  white  with 
rage,  ground  his  teeth  together,  and 
said,  lifting  his  hand,  "  Wull  ye  let 
me  go,  or  must  I  tak  my  hand  till 
ye  1" 

"  No  ! "  said  Christie,  "  I  '11  no  let 
ye  go,  sae  look  me  i'  the  face  ;  Flucker  's 
dochter,  your  auld  comrade,  that  saved 
your  life  at  Holy  Isle,  think  o'  his  face,  — 
an'  look  in  mines,  — an'  strike  me!  !  I  " 


They  glared  on  one  another,  —  he 
fiercely  and  unsteadily;  she  firmly  and 
proudly. 

Jean  Carnie  said  afterwards,  "  Her 
eyes  were  like  coals  of  fire." 

."  Ye  are  doing  what  nae  mon  i' 
the  toon  daur ;  ye  are  a  bauld,  un- 
wise lassy." 

"  It 's  you  mak  me  bauld,"  was  the 
instant  reply.  "  I  saw  ye  face  the 
mad  sea,  to  save  a  ship  fra'  the  rocks, 
an'  will  I  fear  a  mon's  hand,  when 
I  can  save "  (rising  to  double  her 
height)  "  my  feyther's  auld  freend 
fra'  the  puir  mon's  enemy,  the  enemy 
o'  mankind,  the  cursed,  cursed  drink? 
O  Sandy  Liston,  hoow  could  ye  think 
to  put  an  enemy  in  your  mooth  to 
steal  awa  your  brains  !  " 

"  This  's  no  Newhaven  chat ;  wha 
lairns  ye  sic  words  o'  power  ?  " 

"  A  deed  mon  !  " 

"  I  would  na  wonder,  y'  are  no 
canny ;  she 's  ta'en  a'  the  poower  oot 
o'  my  body,  I  think."  Then  sudden- 
ly descending  to  a  tone  of  abject  sub- 
mission, "  What 's  your  pleesure, 
Flucker  Johnstone's  dochter  ?  " 

She  instantly  withdrew  the  offen- 
sive grasp,  and,  leaning  affectionately 
on  his  shoulder,  she  melted  into  her 
rich  Ionic  tones. 

"  It 's  no  a  time  for  sin  ;  ye  '11  sit 
by  my  fire,  an'  get  your  dinner ;  a 
bonny  haggis  hae  I  for  you  an'  Fluck- 
er, an'  we'll  improve  this  sorrowfu' 
judgment;  an'  ye '11  tell  me  o'  auld 
times,  —  o'  my  fey  ther  dear,  that  likeit 
ye  weel,  Sandy,  —  o'  the  storrms  ye 
hae  weathered,  side  by  side,  —  o'  the 
muckle  whales  ye  killed  Greenland 
way,  —  an',  abune  a',  o'  the  lives  ye 
hae  saved  at  sea,  by  your  daurin  an' 
your  skell ;  an',  O  Sandy,  will  na 
that  be  better  as  sit  an'  poor  leequid 
damnation  doown  your  throat,  an'  gie 
awa  the  sense  an'  feeling  o'  a  mon  for 
a  sair  heed  and  an  ill  name  ?  " 

"  I  'se  gang,  my  lamb,"  said  the 
rough  man,  quite  subdued ;  "  I  daur 
say  whiskey  will  no  pass  my  teeth  the 
day." 

And  so  he  went  quietly  away,  and 
sat  by  Christie's  fireside. 


1GO 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOKE. 


Jean  and  Christie  went  towards  the 
boats. 

Jean,  after  taking  it  philosophically 
for  half  a  minute,  began  to  whimper. 

"  What  'a  wrang  ?  "  said  Christie. 

"  Div  ye  think  my  hairt  's  no  in  my 
mooth  wi'  you  gripping  yon  fierce 
robber  1 " 

Here  a  young  fishwife,  with  a  box 
in  her  hand,  who  had  followed  them, 
pulled  Jean  by  the  coats. 

"  Hets,"  said  Jean,  pulling  herself 
free. 

The  child  then,  with  a  pertinacity 
these  little  animals  have,  pulled  Chris- 
tie's coats. 

"  Hets,"  said  Christie,  freeing  her- 
self more  gently. 

"  Ye  suld  mairry  Van  Amburgh," 
continued  Jean  ;  "  ye  are  just  such  a 
lass  as  he  is  a  lad." 

Christie  smiled  proudly,  was  silent, 
but  did  not  disown  the  comparison. 

The  little  fishwife,  unable  to  attract 
attention  by  pulling,  opened  her  box, 
and  saying,  "  Lasses,  I  '11  let  ye  see 
my  presoner :  hech  !  he 's  boenny  !  " 
pulled  out  a  mouse  by  a  string  fastened 
to  his  tail,  and  set  him  in  the  midst  for 
friendly  admiration. 

"  I  dinna  like  it,  —  I  dinna  like  it !  " 
screamed  Christie ;  "  Jean,  put  it 
away,  —  it  fears  me,  Jean  !  "  This 
she  uttered  (her  eyes  almost  starting 
from  her  head  with  unaffected  terror) 
at  the  distance  of  about  eight  yards, 
whither  she  had  arrived  in  two  bounds 
that  would  have  done  no  .discredit  to 
an  antelope. 

"  Het,  said  Jean,  uneasily,  "  hae 
ye  coowed  yon  savage,  to  be  scared  at 
the  wee  beastie  ?  " 

Christie,  looking  askant  at  the  ani- 
mal, explained :  "  A  moose  is  an 
awesome  beast,  —  it 's  no  like  a  mon ! " 
and  still  her  eye  was  fixed  by  fascina- 
tion upon  the  four-footed  danger. 

Jean,  who  had  not  been  herself  in 
genuine  tranquillity,  now  turned  sav- 
agely on  the  little  Wombwelless  : "  An' 
div  ye  really  think  ye  are  to  come  here 
wi'  a'  the  beasts  i'  the  Airk  ?  Come, 
awa  ye  go,  the  pair  o'  ye." 

These  severe  words,  and  a  smart 


push,  sent  the  poor  little  biped  off  roar- 
ing, with  the  string  over  her  shoulder, 
recklessly  dragging  the  terrific  quadru- 
ped, which  made  fruitless  grabs  at  the 
shingle. — Moral.  Don't  terrify  big- 
ger folk  than  yourself. 

Christie  had  intended  to  go  up  to 
Edinburgh  with  her  eighty  pounds, 
but  there  was  more  trouble  in  store 
this  eventful  day. 

Fluckef  went  out  after  dinner,  and 
left  her  with  Sandy  Liston,  who  was 
in  the  middle  of  a  yarn,  when  some 
one  came  running  in  and  told  her 
Flucker  was  at  the  pier  crying  for  her. 
She  inquired  what  was  the  matter. 
"  Come,  an'  ye  '11  see,"  was  all  the 
answer.  She  ran  down  to  the  pier. 
There  was  poor  Flucker  lying  on  his 
back ;  he  had  slipped  from  the  pier 
into  a  boat  that  lay  alongside  ;  the  fall 
was  considerable ;  for  a  minute  he  had 
been  insensible,  then  he  had  been 
dreadfully  sick,  and  now  he  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  his  hurt ;  he  was  in 
great  anguish  ;  nobody  knew  the  ex- 
tent of  his  injuries  ;  he  would  let  no- 
body touch  him ;  all  his  cry  was  for 
his  sister.  At  last  she  came  ;  they  all 
made  way  for  her ;  he  was  crying  for 
her  as  she  came  up. 

"  My  bairn  !  my  bairn  !  "  cried 
she,  and  the  poor  little  fellow  smiled, 
and  tried  to  raise  himself  towards 
her. 

She  lifted  him  gently  in  her  arms, 
—  she  was  powerful,  and  affection 
made  her  stronger  ;  she  carried  him  in 
her  arms  all  the  way  home,  and  laid 
him  on  her  own  bed.  Willy  Liston, 
her  discarded  suitor,  ran  for  the  sur- 
geon. There  were  no  bones  broken, 
but  his  ankle  was  severely  sprained, 
and  he  had  a  terrible  bruise  on  the 
loins ;  his  dark,  ruddy  face  was 
streaked  and  pale  ;  but  he  never  com- 
plained after  he  found  himself  at 
home. 

Christie  hovered  round  him,  a  min- 
istering angel,  applying  to  him  with  a 
light  and  loving  hand  whatever  could 
ease  his  pain ;  and  he  watched  her 
with  an  expression  she  had  never  no- 
ticed in  his  eye  before. 


CHRISTIE  JOI1NSTONE. 


161 


At  last,  after  two  hours'  silence,  he 
made  her  sit  in  full  view,  and  then  he 
spoke  to  her;  and  what  think  you 
was  the  subject  of  his  discourse  ? 

He  turned  to  and  told  her,  one  after 
another,  without  preface,  all  the  lov- 
ing things  she  had  done  to  him  ever 
since  he  was  five  years  old.  Poor  boy, 
he  had  never  shown  much  gratitude, 
but  he  had  forgotten  nothing,  literally 
nothing. 

Christie  was  quite  overcome  with 
this  unexpected  trait;  she  drew  him 
gently  to  her  bosom,  and  wept  over 
him  ;  and  it  was  sweet  to  see  a  broth- 
er and  sister  treat  each  other  almost 
like  lovers,  as  these  two  began  to  do, 

—  they  watched  each  other's  eye  so 
tenderly. 

This  new  care  kept  the  sister  in  her 
own  house  all  the  next  day ;  but  to- 
wards the  evening,  Jean,  who  knew 
her  other  anxiety,  slipped  in  and  of- 
fered to  take  her  place  for  an  hour  by 
Flucker's  side ;  at  the  same  time  she 
looked  one  of  those  signals  which  are 
too  subtle  for  any  but  woman  to  un- 
derstand. 

Christie  drew  her  aside,  and  learned 
that  Gatty  and  his  mother  were  just 
coming  through  from  Leith  ;  Christie 
ran  for  her  eighty  pounds,  placed  them 
in  her  bosom,  cast  a  hasty  glance  at 
a  looking-glass,  little  larger  than  an 
oyster-shell,  and  ran  out. 

"  Hech  !  What  pleased  the  auld 
wife  will  be  to  see,  he  has  a  lass  that 
can  mak  auchty  pund  in  a  morning." 

This  was  Christie's  notion. 

At  sight  of  them  she  took  out  the 
hank-notes,  and  with  eyes  glistening 
and  cheeks  flushing  she  cried  :  — 

"  0  Chairles,  ye  '11  no  gang  to  jail, 

—  I  hae  the  siller ! "  and  she  offered 
him  the  money  with  both  hands,  and 
a    look  of  tenderness    and  modesty 
that  embellished  human  nature. 

Ere  he  could  speak,  his  mother  put 
out  her  hand,  and  not  rudely,  but  very 
coldly,  repelling  Christie's  arm,  said 
in  a  freezing  manner  :  — 

"  We  are  much  obliged  to  you,  but 
my  son's  own  talents  have  rescued  him 
from  his  little  embarrassment." 


"  A  nobleman  has  bought  my  pic- 
ture," said  Gatty,  proudly. 

"  For  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,"  said  the  old  lady,  meaning 
to  mark  the  contrast  between  that  sum 
and  what  Christie  had  in  her  hand. 

Christie  remained  like  a  statue, 
with  her  arms  extended,  and  the 
bank-notes  in  her  hand  ;  her  features 
worked,  —  she  had  much  ado  not  to 
cry  ;  and  any  one  that  had  known  the 
whole  story,  and  seen  this  unmerited - 
repulse,  would  have  felt  for  her ;  but 
her  love  came  to  her  aid,  she  put  the 
notes  in  her  bosom, sighed,  and  said: — 

"  I  would  hae  likeit  to  hae  been  the 
first,  ye  ken,  but  I  'in  real  pleased." 

"  But,  mother,"  said  Gatty,  "  it  was 
very  kind  of  Christie  all  the  same. 
O  Christie !  "  said  he,  in  a  tone  of 
despair. 

At  this  kind  word  Christie's  forti- 
tude was  sore  tried  ;  she  turned  away 
her  head  ;  —  she  was  far  too  delicate 
to  let  them  know  who  had  sent  Lord 
Ipsdcn  to  buy  the  picture. 

Whilst  she  turned  away,  Mrs  Gat- 
ty said  in  her  son's  ear  :  — 

"  Now,  I  have  your  solemn  prom- 
ise to  do  it  here,  and  at  once ;  you 
will  find  me  on  the  beach  behind  these 
boats,  —  do  it." 

The  reader  will  understand  that 
during  the  last  few  days  Mrs.  Gatty 
had  improved  her  advantage,  and  that 
Charles  had  positively  consented  to 
obey  her ;  the  poor  boy  was  worn  out 
with  the  struggle,  —  he  felt  he  must 
have  peace  or  die ;  he  was  thin  and 
pale,  and  sudden  twitches  came  over 
him  ;  his  temperament  was  not  fit  for 
such  a  battle ;  and,  it  is  to  be  observed, 
nearly  all  the  talk  was  on  one  side. 
He  had  made  one  expiring  struggle, 
—  he  described  to  his  mother  an  art- 
ist's nature,  his  strength,  his  weak- 
ness, —  he  besought  her  not  to  be  a 
slave  to  general  rules,  but  to  inquire 
what  sort  of  a  companion  the  indi- 
vidual Gatty  needed  ;  he  lashed  with 
true  but  brilliant  satire  the  sort  of  wife 
his  mother  was  ready  to  see  him  sad- 
dled with,  —  a  sjupid,  unsympathizing 
creature,  whose  ten  children  would, 


162 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


by  nature's  law,  be  also  stupid,  and 
so  be  a  weight  on  him  till  his  dying 
day.  He  painted  Christie  Johnstone, 
mind  and  body,  in  words  as  true  and 
bright  as  his  colors ;  he  showed  his 
own  weak  points,  her  strong  ones,  and 
how  the  latter  would  fortify  the  for- 
mer. 

He  displayed,  in  short,  in  one  min- 
ute more  intellect  than  his  mother 
had  exhibited  in  sixty  years;  and 
that  done,  with  all  his  understanding, 
wit,  and  eloquence,  he  succumbed 
like  a  child,  to  her  stronger  will,  —  he 
promised  to  break  with  Christie  John- 
stone. 

"When  Christie  had  recovered  her 
composure  and  turned  round  to  her 
companions,  she  found  herself  alone 
with  Charles. 

"  Chairles,"  said  she,  gravely. 

"  Christie,"  said  he,  uneasily. 

"  Your  mother  does  na  like  me. 
O,  ye  need  na  deny  it ;  and  we  are  na 
together  as  we  used  to  be,  my  lad." 

"  She  is  prejudiced,  but  she  has 
been  the  best  of  mothers  to  me,  Chris- 
tie." 

"  Aweel." 

"  Circumstances  compel  me  to  re- 
turn to  England." 

(Ah,  coward  !  anything  but  the  real 
truth  !  ) 

"  Aweel,  Chairles,  it  will  no  be  for 
lang." 

"  I  don't  know ;  you  will  not  be  so 
unhappy  as  I  shall,  —  at  least  I  hope 
not." 

"  Hoow  do  ye  ken  that  ?  " 

"  Christie,  do  you  remember  the 
first  night  we  danced  together  ?  " 

"  Ay." 

"  And  we  walked  in  the  cool  by  the 
seaside,  and  I  told  you  the  names  of 
the  stars,  and  you  said  those  were  not 
their  real  names,  but  nicknames  we 
give  them  here  on  earth.  I  loved  you 
that  first  night." 

"  And  I  fancied  you  the  first  time  I 
set  eyes  on  you." 

"  How  can  I  leave  you,  Christie  ? 
What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  I  ken  what  I  shall  do,"  answered 
Christie,  coolly;  then,  bursting  into 


tears,  she  added,  "I  shall  dee!  I 
shall  dee ! " 

"  No  !  you  must  not  say  so ;  at 
least  I  will  never  love  any  one  but 
you." 

"  An'  I  '11  live  as  I  am  a'  my  days 
for  your  sake.  O  England  !  I  hae 
likeit  ye  sae  weel,  ye  suld  na  rob  me 
o'  my  lad,  —  he 's  a'  the  joy  I  hae  !  " 

"  I  love  you,"  said  Gatty.  "  Do  you 
love  me  ?  " 

All  the  answer  was,  her  head  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  thought  Gatty, 
"  and  I  won't !  Christie,"  said  he, 
"  stay  here,  don't  move  from  here." 
And  he  dashed  among  the  boats  in 
great  agitation. 

He  found  his  mother  rather  near 
the  scene  of  the  late  conference. 

"Mother,"  said  he,  fiercely,  like  a 
coward  as  he  was,  "  ask  me  no  more, 
my  mind  is  made  up  forever  ;  I  will 
not  do  this  scoundrelly,  heartless, 
beastly,  ungrateful  action  you  have 
been  pushing  me  to  so  long." 

"  Take,  care,  Charles,  take  care," 
said  the  old  woman,  trembling  with 
passion,  for  this  was  a  new  tone  for 
her  son  to  take  with  her.  "  You  had 
my  blessing  the  other  day,  and  you 
saw  what  followed  it ;  do  not  tempt 
me  to  curse  an  undutiful,  disobedient, 
ungrateful  son." 

"  I  must  take  my  chance,"  said  he, 
desperately  :  "  for  I  am  under  a 
curse  any  way  !  I  placed  my  ring  on 
her  finger,  and  held  up  my  hand  to 
God  and  swore  she  should  be  my 
wife  ;  she  has  my  ring  and  my  oath, 
and  I  will  not  perjure  myself  even  for 
my  mother." 

"Your  ring !  Not  the  ruby  ring  I 
gave  you  from  your  dead  father's  fin- 
ger, —  not  that !  not  that !  " 

"  Yes  !  yes !  I  tell  you  yes !  and 
if  he  was  alive,  and  saw  her,  and  knew 
her  goodness,  he  would  have  pity  on 
me,  but  I  have  no  friend ;  you  see 
how  ill  you  have  made  me,  but  you 
have  no  pity ;  I  could  not  have  be- 
lieved it ;  but,  since  you  have  no  mer- 
cy on  me,  I  will  have  the  more  mercy 
on  myself;  I  marry  her  to-morrow, 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


163 


and  put  an  end  to  all  this  shuffling 
and  manoeuvring  against  an  angel ! 
I  am  not  worthy  of  her,  but  I  '11  mar- 
ry her  to-morrow.  Good  by." 

"  Stay !  "  said  the  old  woman,  in  a 
terrible  voice ;  "  before  you  destroy 
me  and  all  I  have  lived  for,  and  suf- 
fered, and  pinched  for,  hear  me ;  if 
that  ring  is  not  off  the  hussy's  finger 
in  half  an  hour,  and  you  my  son 
again,  I  fall  on  this  sand  and  —  " 

"  Then  God  have  mercy  upon  me, 
for  I  '11  see  the  whole  creation  lost 
eternally,  ere  I  '11  wrong  the  only 
creature  that  is  an  ornament  to  the 
world." 

He  was  desperate ;  and  the  weak, 
driven  to  desperation,  are  more  furious 
than  the  strong. 

It  was  by  Heaven's  mercy  that 
neither  mother  nor  son  had  time  to 
speak  again. 

As  they  faced  each  other,  with 
flaming  eyes  and  faces,  all  self-com- 
mand gone,  about  to  utter  hasty 
words,  and  lay  up  regret,  perhaps  for 
all  their  lives  to  come,  in  a  moment, 
as  if  she  had  started  from  the  earth, 
Christie  Johnstone  stood  between 
them ! 

Gatty's  words,  and,  still  more,  his 
hesitation,  had  made  her  quick  intel- 
ligence suspect :  she  had  resolved  to 
know  the  truth ;  the  boats  offered  ev- 
ery facility  for  listening,  —  she  had 
heard  every  word. 

She  stood  between  the  mother  and 
son. 

They  were  confused,  abashed,  and 
the  hot  blood  began  to  leave  their 
faces. 

She  stood  erect  like  a  statue,  her 
cheek  pale  as  ashes,  her  eyes  glitter- 
ing like  basilisks,  she  looked  at  neither 
of  them. 

She  slowly  raised  her  left  hand,  she 
withdrew  a  ruby  ring  from  it,  and 
dropped  the  ring  on  the  sand  between 
the  two. 

She  turned  on  her  heel,  and  was 
gone  as  she  had  come,  without  a  word 
spoken. 

They  looked  at  one  another,  stupe- 
fied at  first ;  after  a  considerable  pause 


the  stern  old  woman  stooped,  picked 
up  the  ring,  and,  in  spite  of  a  certain 
chill  that  the  young  woman's  majestic 
sorrow  had  given  her,  said,  placing  it 
on  her  own  finger,  "  This  is  for  your 
wife  !  !  !  " 

"  It  will  be  for  my  coffin,  then," 
said  her  son,  so  coldly,  so  bitterly, 
and  so  solemnly,  that  the  mother's 
heart  began  to  quake. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  calmly,  "  for- 
give me,  and  accept  your  son's  arm." 

"  I  will,  my  son  !  " 

"  We  are  alone  in  the  world  now, 
mother." 

Mrs.  Gatty  had  triumphed,  but  she 
felt  the  price  of  her  triumph  more  than 
her  victory.  It  had  been  done  in  one 
moment,  that  for  which  she  had  so 
labored,  and  it  seemed  that  had  she 
spoken  long  ago  to  Christie,  instead 
of  Charles,  it  could  have  been  done  at 
any  moment. 

Strange  to  say,  for  some  minutes 
the  mother  felt  more  uneasy  than  her 
son  ;  she  was  a  woman,  after  all,  and 
could  measure  a  woman's  heart,  and 
she  saw  how  deep  the  wound  she  had 
given  one  she  was  now  compelled  to 
respect. 

Charles,  on  the  other  hand,  had 
been  so  harassed  backwards  and  for- 
wards, that  to  him  certainty  was  re- 
lief; it  was  a  great  matter  to  be  no 
longer  called  upon  to  decide.  His 
mother  had  said,  "  Part,"  and  now 
Christie  had  said,  "  Part "  ;  at  least 
the  affair  was  taken  out  of  his  hands, 
and  his  first  feeling  was  a  heavenly 
calm. 

In  this  state  he  continued  for  about 
a  mile,  and  he  spoke  to  his  mother 
about  his  art,  sole  object  now;  but 
after  the  first  mile  he  became  silent, 
distrait ;  Christie's  pale  face,  her  mor- 
tified air,  when  her  generous  offer  was 
coldly  repulsed,  filled  him  with  re- 
morse :  finally,  unable  to  bear  it,  yet 
not  daring  to  speak,  he  broke  sudden- 
ly from  his  mother  without  a  word, 
and  ran  wildly  back  to  Newhaven; 
he  looked  back  only  once,  and  there 
stood  his  mother,  pale,  with  her  hands 
piteously  lifted  towards  heaven. 


164 


CHRISTIE  JOHKSTOXE. 


By  the  time  he  got  to  Newhaven 
he  was  as  sorry  for  her  as  for  Chris- 
tie. He  ran  to  the  house  of  the  lat- 
ter; Flucker  and  Jean  told  him  she 
was  on  the  beach.  He  ran  to  the 
beach  !  he  did  not  see  her  at  first,  but, 
presently  looking  back,  he  saw  her, 
at  the  edge  of  the  boats,  in  company 
with  a  gentleman  in  a  boating-dress. 
He  looked — could  he  believe  his  eyes  ? 
he  saw  Christie  Johnstone  kiss  this 
man's  hand,  who  then,  taking  her  head 
gently  in  his  two  hands,  placed  a  kiss 
upon  her  brow,  whilst  she  seemed  to 
yield  lovingly  to  the  caress. 

Gatty  turned  faint,  sick;  for  a  mo- 
ment everything  swam  before  his  eyes ; 
he  recovered  himself,  they  were  gone. 

He  darted  round  to  intercept  them ; 
Christie  had  slipped  away  somewhere; 
he  encountered  the  man  alone  ! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CHRISTIE'S  situation  requires  to  be 
explained. 

On  leaving  Gatty  and  his  mother, 
she  went  to  her  own  house.  Flucker 

—  who  after  looking  upon  her  for  years 
as  an  inconvenient  appendage,  except 
at  dinner-time,  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her  in  a  manner  that  was  half  pathetic, 
half  laughable,  all  things  considered 

—  saw  by  her  face  she  had  received  a 
blow,  and,  raising  himself  in  the  bed, 
inquired    anxiously,    "  What    ailed 
her?" 

At  these  kind  words,  Christie  John- 
stone  laid  her  cheek  upon  the  pillow 
beside  Flucker's,  and  said  :  — 

"  O  my  laamb,  be  kind  to  your 
puir  sister  fra'  this  hoor,  for  she  has 
naething  i'  the  warld  noo  but  your- 
sel'." 

Flucker  began  to  sob  at  this. 

Christie  could  not  cry ;  her  heart  was 
like  a  lump  of  lead  in  her  bosom  ;  but 
she  put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and 
at  the  sight  of  his  sympathy  she  pant- 
ed heavily,  but  could  not  shed  a  tear, 

—  she  was  sore  stricken. 
Presently  Jean  came  in,  and,  as  the 


poor  girl's  head  ached  as  well  as  her 
heart,  they  forced  her  to  go  and  sit  in 
the  air.  She  took  her  creepie  and  sat, 
and  looked  on  the  sea ;  but,  whether 
she  looked  seaward  or  landward,  all 
seemed  unreal ;  not  things,  but  hard 
pictures  of  things,  some  moving,  some 
still.  Life  seemed  ended,  —  she  had 
lost  her  love. 

An  hour  she  sat  in  this  miserable 
trance  ;  she  was  diverted  into  a  better, 
because  a  somewhat  less  dangerous 
form  of  grief,  by  oue  of  those  trifling 
circumstances  that  often  penetrate  to 
the  human  heart,  when  inaccessible  to 
greater  things. 

Willy  the  fiddler  and  his  brother 
came  through  the  town,  playing  as  they 
went,  according  to  custom ;  their 
music  floated  past  Christie's  ears  like 
some.drowsy  chime,  until,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, they  struck  up  the  old  English 
air,  "  Speed  the  Plough." 

Now  it  was  to  this  tune  Charles 
Gatty  had  danced  with  her  their  first 
dance  the  night  they  made  acquaint- 
ance. 

Christie  listened,  lifted  up  her  hands, 
and  crying,  — 

"  O,  what  will  I  do  ?  what  will  I 
do  ?  "  burst  into  a  passion  of  grief. 

She  put  her  apron  over  her  head, 
and  rocked  herself,  and  sobbed  bitter- 

lj- 

She  was  in  this  situation  when  Lord 
Ipsden,  who  was  prowling  about,  ex- 
amining the  proportions  of  the  boats, 
discovered  her. 

"  Some  one  in  distress,  —  that  was 
all  in  his  way." 

"  Madam  !  "  said  he. 

She  lifted  up  her  head. 

"  It  is  Christie  Johnstone.  I  'm  so 
glad  ;  that  is,  I  'm  sorry  you  are  cry- 
ing, but  I  'm  glad  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  relieving  you " ;  and  his 
Lordship  began  to  feel  for  a  check- 
book. 

"  And  div  ye  really  think  siller  's  a 
cure  for  every  grief!"  said  Christie, 
bitterly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  his  Lordship ; 
"  it  has  cured  them  all  as  yet." 

"  It  will  na  cure  me,  then  !  "  and 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


165 


she  covered  her  head  with  her  apron 
again. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  he  ;  "  tell 
me"  (whispering),  "what  is  if?  poor 
little  Christie !  " 

"  Dinna  speak  to  me ;  I  think 
shame ;  ask  Jean.  0  Richard,  I  '11  no 
be  lang  in  this  warkl ! !  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  he,  "  I  know  too  well 
what  it  is  now ;  I  know,  by  sad  expe- 
rience. But,  Christie,  money  will  cure 
it  in  your  case,  and  it  shall,  too ;  only, 
instead  of  five  pounds,  we  must  put  a 
thousand  pounds  or  two  to  your  bank- 
er's account,  and  then  they  will  all  see 
your  beauty,  and  run  after  you." 

"  How  daur  ye  even  to  me  that  I  'm 
seekin  a  lad  ?  "  cried  she,  rising  from 
her  stool ;  "  I  would  na  care  suppose 
there  was  na  a  lad  in  Britain."  And 
off  she  flounced. 

"  Offended  her  by  my  gross  want  of 
tact,"  thought  the  Viscount. 

She  crept  back,  and  two  velvet  lips 
touched  his  hand.  That  was  because 
she  had  spoken  harshly  to  a  friend. 

"  O  Richard,"  said  she,  despairingly, 
"  I  '11  no  be  lang  in  this  warld." 

He  was  touched ;  and  it  was  then 
he  took  her  head  and  kissed  her  brow, 
and  said  :  "  This  will  never  do  :  my 
child,  go  home  and  have  a  nice  cry, 
and  I  will  speak  to  Jean ;  and,  rely 
upon  me,  I  will  not  leave  the  neigh- 
borhood till  I  have  arranged  it  all  to 
your  satisfaction." 

And  so  she  went,  — a  little,  a  very, 
very  little,  comforted  by  his  tone  and 
words. 

Now  this  was  all  very  pretty ;  but 
then  seen  at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards 
it  looked  very  ugly ;  and  Gatty,  who 
had  never  before  known  jealousy,  the 
strongest  and  worst  of  human  pas- 
sions, was  ripe  for  anything. 

He  met  Lord  Ipsden,  and  said  at 
once,  in  his  wise,  temperate  way  :  — 

"  Sir,  you  are  a  villain  !  " 

Ipsden.    "  Plait-il  ?  " 

Gatty.   "  You  are  a  villain  ! " 

Ipsden.  "  How  do  you  make  that 
out  ?  " 

Gatty.  "But,  of  course,  you  are 
not  a  coward,  too." 


Ipsden  (ironicalh/).  "You  surprise 
me  with  your  mock-ration,  sir." 

Gatty.  "  Then  you  will  waive  your 
rank,  —  you  are  a  Lord,  I  believe,  — 
and  give  me  satisfaction." 

Ipsden.  "  My  rank,  sir,  such  as  it 
is,  engages  me  to  give  a  proper  an- 
swer to  proposals  of  this  sort ;  I  am 
at  your  orders." 

Gatty.  "  A  man  of  your  character 
must  often  have  been  called  to  an  ac- 
count by  your  victims,  so  —  so  —  " 
(hesitating)  "  perhaps  you  will  tell 
me  the  proper  course." 

Ipsden.  "  /shall  send  a  note  to  the 
castle,  and  the  Colonel  will  send  me 
down  somebody  with  a  mustache ;  I 
shall  pretend  to  remember  mustache, 
mustache  will  pretend  he  remembers 
me ;  he  will  then  communicate  with 
your  friend,  and  they  will  arrange  it 
all  for  us." 

Gatty.  "  And,  perhaps,  through 
your  licentiousness,  one  or  both  of  us 
will  be  killed." 

Ipsden.  "  Yes  !  but  we  need  not 
trouble  our  heads  about  that,  —  the 
seconds  undertake  everything." 

Gatty.   "  I  have  no  pistols." 

Ipsden.  "If  you  will  do  me  the 
honor  to  use  one  of  mine,  it  shall  be 
at  your  service." 

Gatty.   "  Thank  you." 

Ipsden.    "  To-morrow  morning  ?  " 

Gatty.  "  No.  I  have  four  days' 
painting  to  do  on  my  picture,  I  can't 
die  till  it  is  finished ;  Friday  morn- 
ing." 

Ipsden.  "  (He  is  mad.)  I  wish  to 
ask  you  a  question,  you  will  excuse 
my  curiosity.  Have  you  any  idea  what 
we  are  agreeing  to  differ  about  1 " 

Gatty.  "  The  question  does  you 
little  credit,  my  Lord ;  that  is  to  add 
insult  to  wrong." 

He  went  off  hurriedly,  leaving  Lord 
•Ipsden  mystified. 

He  thought  Christie  Johnstone  was 
somehow  connected  with  it ;  but,  con- 
scious of  no  wrong,  he  felt  little  dis- 
posed to  put  up  with  any  insult,  es- 
pecially from  this  boy,  to  whom  he 
had  been  kind,  he  thought. 

His  Lordship  was,  besides,  one  of 


1G6 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


those  good,  simple-minded  creatures, 
educated  abroad,  who,  when  invked 
to  fight,  simply  bow,  and  load  two 
pistols,  and  get  themselves  called  at 
six ;  instead  of  taking  down  tomes  of 
casuistry  and  puzzling  their  poor 
brains  to  find  out  whether  they  are 
game-cocks  or  capons,  and  why. 

As  for  Gatty,  he  hurried  home  in  a 
fever  of  passion,  begged  his  mother's 
pardon,  and  reproached  himself  for 
ever  having  disobeyed  her  on  account 
of  such  a  perfidious  creature  as  Chris- 
tie Johnstone. 

He  then  told  her  what  he  had  seen, 
as  distance  and  imagination  had  pre- 
sented it  to  him ;  to  his  surprise  the 
old  lady  cut  him  short. 

"  Charles,"  said  she,  "  there  is  no 
need  to  take  the  girl's  character  away ; 
she  has  but  one  fault,  —  she  is  not  in 
the  same  class  of  life  as  you,  and  such 
marriages  always  lead  to  misery ;  but 
in  other  respects  she  is  a  worthy 
young  woman,  —  don't  speak  against 
her  character,  or  you  will  make  my 
flesh  creep ;  you  don't  know  what  her 
character  is  to  a  woman,  high  or 
low." 

By  this  moderation,  perhaps  she 
held  him  still  faster. 

Friday  morning  arrived.  Gatty 
had,  by  hard  work,  finished  his  pic- 
ture, collected  his  sketches  from  na- 
ture, which  were  numerous,  left  by 
memorandum  everything  to  his  moth- 
er, and  was,  or  rather  felt,  as  ready  to 
die  as  live. 

He  had  hardly  spoken  a  word,  or 
eaten  a  meal,  these  four  days  ;  his 
mother  was  in  anxiety  about  him. 
He  rose  early,  and  went  down  to 
Leith  ;  an  hour  later,  his  mother,  find- 
ing him  gone  out,  rose,  and  went  to 
seek  him  at  Newhaven. 

Meantime  Flucker  had  entirely  re- 
covered, but  his  sister's  color  had  left 
her  cheeks  ;  and  the  boy  swore  ven- 
geance against  the  cause  of  her  dis- 
tress. 

On  Friday  morning,  then,  there 
paced  on  Leith  Sands  two  figures. 

One  was  Lord  Ipsden. 

The  other  seemed  a  military  gen- 


tleman, who  having  swallowed  the 
nvss-room  poker,  and  found  it  insuf- 
ficient, had  added  the  ramrods  of  his 
company. 

The  more  his  Lordship  reflected  on 
Gatty,  the  less  inclined  he  had  felt  to 
invite  a  satirical  young  dog  from 
barracks  to  criticise  such  a  rencontre ; 
he  had  therefore  ordered  Saunders  to 
get  up  as  a  Field -Marshal,  or  some 
such  trifle,  and  what  Saunders  would  . 
have  called  incomparable  verticality 
was  the  result. 

The  Painter  was  also  in  sight. 

Whilst  he  was  coming  up,  Lord 
Ipsden  was  lecturing  Marshal  Saun- 
ders on  a  point  on  which  that  worthy 
had  always  thought  himself  very  su- 
perior to  his  master,  —  "  Gentlemanly 
deportment." 

"  Now,  Saunders,  mind  and  behave 
like  a  gentleman,  or  we  shall  be  found 
out" 

"  I  trust,  my  Lord,  my  conduct  —  " 

"  What  I  mean  is,  you  must  not  be 
so  overpoweringly  gentleman-like  as 
you  are  apt  to  be ;  no  gentleman  is  so 
gentleman-like  as  all  that ;  it  could 
not  be  borne,  c'est  suffoquant ;  and  a 
white  handkerchief  is  unsoldier-like, 
and  nobody  ties  a  white  handkerchief 
so  well  as  that ;  of  all  the  vices, 
perfection  is  the  most  intolerable." 
His  Lordship  then  touched  with  his 
cane  the  Generalissimo's  tie,  whose 
countenance  straightway  fell,  as 
though  he  had  lost  three  successive 
battles. 

Gatty  came  np. 

They  saluted. 

"  Where  is  your  second,  sir  ?  "  said 
the  Mare'chal. 

"  My  second  1 "  said  Gatty.  "  Ah  ! 
I  forgot  to  wake  him,  —  does  it  mat- 
ter?" 

"  It  is  merely  a  custom,"  said  Lord 
Ipsden,  with  a  very  slightly  satirical 
manuer.  "  Savanadero,"  said  he, 
"  do  us  the  honor  to  measure  the 
ground,  and  be  everybody's  second." 

Savanadero  measured  the  ground, 
and  handed  a  pistol  to  each  comba- 
tant, and  struck  an  imposing  attitude 
apart. 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


167 


"  Are  you  ready,  gentlemen  ?  "  said 
this  Jack-o'-both-sides. 

"  Yes!  "  said  both. 

Just  as  the  signal  was  about  to  be 
given,  *an  interruption  occurred.  "  I 
beg  you  pardon,  sir,"  said  Lord 
Ipsden  to  his  antagonist ;  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  take  a  liberty,  —  a  great  liberty 
with  you,  but  I  think  you  will  find 
your  pistol  is  only  at  half  cock." 

"  Thank  you,  my  Lord ;  what  am 
I  to  do  with  the  thing '{  " 

"  Draw  back  the  cock  so,  and  be 
ready  to  fire  1"  -•»•  • 

"  So  ?  "     Bang  ! 

He  had  touched  the  trigger  as  well 
as  the  cock,  so  off  went  the  barker ; 
and  after  a  considerable  pause  the 
Field-Marshal  sprang  yelling  into  the 
air. 

"  Hallo !  "  cried  Mr.  Gatty. 

"Ah!  oh!  -I'm  a  dead  man," 
whined  the  General. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Ipsden,  after  a 
moment  of  anxiety.  "  Give  yourself 
no  concern,  sir,"  said  he,  soothingly, 
to  his  antagonist,  —  "a  mere  acci- 
dent. —  Marechal,  reload  Mr.  Gatty's 
pistol." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  Lord  —  " 

"  Load  his  pistol  directly,"  said  his 
Lordship,  sternly  :  "  and  behave  like 
a  gentleman." 

"  My  Lord  !  my  Lord  !  but  where 
shall.I  stand  to  be  safe  ?  " 

"  Behind  me !  " 

The  Commander  of  Division  ad- 
vanced reluctantly  for  Gatty's  pistol. 

"  No,  my  Lord  !  "  said  Gatty,  "  it 
is  plain  I  am  not  a  fit  antagonist ;  I 
shall  but  expose  myself,  —  and  my 
mother  has  separated  us ;  I  have  lost 
her,  —  if  you  do  not  win  her,  some 
worse  man  may  ;  but  oh  !  if  you  are 
a  man,  use  her  tenderly." 

"  Whom  1  " 

"  Christie  Johnstone !  O  sir,  do 
not  make  her  regret  me  too  much ! 
She  was  my  treasure,  my  consolation, 
—  she  was  to  be  my  wire,  she  would 
have  cheered  the  road  of  life,  —  it  is  a 
desert  now.  I  loved  her  —  I  —  I  —  " 

Here  the  poor  fellow  choked. 

Lord    Ipsden  turned    round,    and 


threw  his  pistol  to  Saunders,  saying, 
"  Catch  that,  Saunders." 

Saunders,  on  the  contrary,  by  a 
single  motion  changed  his  person  from 
a  vertical  straight  line  to  a  horizon- 
tal line,  exactly  parallel  with  the 
earth's  surface,  and  the  weapon  sang 
innoxious  over  him. 

His  Lordship  then,  with  a  noble 
defiance  of  etiquette,  walked  up  to  his 
antagonist  and  gave  him  his  hand, 
with  a  motion  no  one  could  resist; 
for  he  felt  for  the  poor  fellow. 

"  It  is  all  a  mistake,"  said  he. 
"  There  is  no  sentiment  between  La 
Johnstone  and  me  but  mutual  esteem. 
I  will  explain  the  whole  thing  :  /  ad- 
mire her  for  her  virtue,  her  wit,  her 
innocence,  her  goodness,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing ;  and  she,  what  she 
sees  in  me,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know," 
added  he,  slightly  shrugging  his  aris- 
tocratic shoulders.  "  Do  me  the  hon- 
or to  breakfast  with  me  at  Newha- 
ven." 

"  I  have  ordered  twelve  sorts  of  fish 
at  the  '  Peacock,'  my  Lord,"  said 
Saunders. 

"  Divine  !  (I  hate  fish)  I  told  Saun- 
ders all  would  be  hungry  and  none 
shot ;  by  the  by,  you  are  winged,  I 
think  you  said,  Saunders  ?  " 

"  No,  my  Lord !  but  look  at  my 
trousers." 

The  bullet  had  cut  his  pantaloons. 

"  I  see,  —  only  barked  ;  so  go  and 
see  about  our  breakfast." 

"  Yes,  my  Lord  "  (faintly). 

"  And  draw  on  me  for  fifty  pounds 
worth  of — new  trousers." 

"  Yes,  my  Lord  "  (sonorously). 

The  duellists  separated,  Gatty  tak- 
ing the  short  cut  to  Newhaven ;  he 
proposed  to  take  his  favorite  swim 
there,  to  refresh  himself  before  break- 
fast ;  and  he  went  from  his  Lordship 
a  little  cheered  by  remarks  which  fell 
from  him,  and  which,  though  vague, 
sounded  frieitdly  ;  —  poor  fellow,  ex- 
cept when  he  had  brush  in  hand  he 
was  a  dreamer. 

This  Viscount,  who  did  not  seem 
to  trouble  his  head  about  class  dig- 
nity, was  to  convert  his  mother  from 


1G8 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


her  aristocratic  tendencies  or  some- 
thing. 

Qae  sais-je  ?  what  will  not  a  dream- 
er hope  ? 

Lord  Ipsden  strolled  along  the 
sands,  and  judge  his  surprise,  when, 
attended  by  two  footmen,  he  met  at 
that  time  in  the  morning  Lady  Bar- 
bara Sinclair. 

Lord  Ipsden  had  been  so  disheart- 
ened and  piqued  by  this  lady's  con- 
duct, that  for  a  whole  week  he  had 
not  been  near  her  :  this  line  of  beha- 
vior sometimes  answers. 

She  met  him  with  a  grand  display 
of  cordiality. 

She  inquired,  "Whether  he  had 
heard  of  a  most  gallant  action,  that, 
coupled  with  another  circumstance" 
(here  she  smiled)  "had  in  part  recon- 
ciled her  to  the  age  we  live  in  ?  " 

He  asked  for  further  particulars. 

She  then  informed  him  "  that  a 
ship  had  been  ashore  on  the  rocks, 
that  no  fisherman  dared  venture  out, 
that  a.  young  gentleman  had  given 
them  his  whole  fortune,  and  so  bribed 
them  to  accompany  him ;  that  he  had 
saved  the  ship  and  the  men's  lives, 
paid  away  his  fortune,  and  lighted  an 
odious  cigar,  and  gone  home,  never 
minding,  amidst  the  blessings  and  ac- 
clamations of  a  maritime  population." 

A  beautiful  story  she  told  him  ;  so 
beautiful,  in  fact,  that  until  she  had 
discoursed  ten  minutes  he  hardly  rec- 
ognized his  own  feat;  but  when  he 
did  he  blushed  inside  as  well  as  out 
with  pleasure?  Oh  !  music  of  music, 
—  praise  from  eloquent  lips,  and  those 
lips  the  lips  we  love. 

The  next  moment  he  felt  ashamed ; 
ashamed  that  Lady  Barbara  should 
praise  him  beyond  his  merits,  as  he 
conceived. 

He  made  a  faint  hypocritical  en- 
deavor to  moderate  her  eulogium ; 
this  gave  matters  an  unexpected  turn, 
Lady  Barbara's  eyes  flashed  defiance. 

"  I  say  it  was  a  noble  action,  that 
one  nursed  in  effeminacy  (as  you  all 
are),  should  teach  the  hardy  seamen 
to  mock  at  peril,  — noble  fellow  !  " 

"  He  did  a  man's  duty,  Barbara." 


"  Ipsden,  take  care,  you  will  make 
me  hate  you,  if  you  detract  from  a 
deed  you  cannot  emulate.  This  gen- 
tleman risked  his  own  life  to  save 
others,  —  he  is  a  hero  !  I  should 
know  him  by  his  face  the  moment  I 
saw  him.  O  that  I  were  such  a  man, 
or  knew  where  to  find  such  a  crea- 
ture !  " 

The  water  came  into  Lord  Ipsden's 
eyes ;  he  did  not  know  what  to  say 
or  do ;  he  turned  away  his  head. 

Lady  Barbara  was  surprised ;  her 
conscience  smote  her. 

"  O  dear,"  said  she,  "  there  now,  I 
have  given  you  pain  —  forgive  me; 
we  can't  all  be  heroes ;  dear  Ipsden, 
don't  think  I  despise  you  now  as  I 
used.  O  no  !  I  have  heard  of  your 
goodness  to  the  poor,  and  I  have  more 
experience  now.  There  is  nobody  I 
esteem  more  than  you,  Richard,  so 
you  need  not  look  so." 

"Thank  you,  dearest  Barbara." 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  were  to  be  such  a 
goose  as  to  write  me  another  letter 
proposing  absurdities  to  me  —  " 

"  Would  the  answer  be  different  ?  " 

"  Very  different." 

"  O  Barbara,  would  you  accept  1  " 

"  Why,  of  course  not ;  but  I  would 
refuse  civilly ! " 

"  Ah !  " 

"  There,  don't  sigh  ;  I  hate  a  sigh- 
'  ing  man.  I  'II  tell  you  something 
i  that  I  know  will  make  you  laugh." 
i  She  then  smiled  saucily  in  his  face, 
I  and  said,  "  Do  you  remember 
Mr.  ***?" 

L'effronte'e !  this  was  the  earnest 
man. 

But  Ipsden  was  a  match  for  her 
this  time. 

" I  think  I  do,"  said  he ;  "a  gen- 
tleman who  wants  to  make  John  Bull 
little  again  into  John  Calf;  but  it 
won't  do." 

Her  ladyship  laughed.  "  Why  did 
you  not  tell  us  that  on  Inch  Coombe  ? " 

"  Because  I  had  not  read  'The 
Catspaw'  then." 

" '  The  Catspaw  ?  '  Ah!  I  thought 
it  could  not  be  you.  Whose  is  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Jerrold's." 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


1G9 


"  Then  Mr.  Jerrold  is  cleverer  than 
you." 

"  It  is  possible." 

"  It  is  certain !  Well,  Mr.  Jerrold 
and  Lord  Ipsden,  you  will  both  be 
glad  to  hear  that  it  was,  in  point  of 
fact,  a  bull  that  confuted  the  advo- 
cate of  the  Middle  Ages ;  we  were 
walking  ;  he  was  telling  me  manhood 
was  extinct  except  in  a  few  earnest 
men  who  lived  upon  the  past,  its 
associations,  its  truth  ;  when  a  horrid 
bull  gave  —  0  —  such  a  bellow  !  and 
came  trotting  up.  I  screamed  and 
ran  —  I  remember  nothing  but  arriv- 
ing at  the  stile,  and  lo,  on  the  other 
side,  offering  me  his  arm  with  em- 
2)rcssemcnt  across  the  wooden  barrier 
was  —  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well !  don't  you  see  ?  " 

"No  —  0  —  yes,  I  see !  —  fancy  — 
ah  !  Shall  I  tell  you  how  he  came  to 
get  first  over  ?  He  ran  more  earnest- 
ly than  you." 

"  It  is  not  Mr.  Jerrold  this  time,  I 
presume,"  said  her  satirical  Ladyship. 

"  No !  you  cannot  always  have 
him.  I  venture  to  predict  your  Lady- 
ship on  your  return  home  gave  this 
mediaeval  personage  his  conge." 

"  No !  " 

"  No  ? " 

"  I  gave  it  him  at  the  stile !  .  Let 
us  be  serious,  if  you  please ;  I  have 
a  confidence  to  make  you,  Ipsden. 
Frankly,  I  owe  you  some  apology  for 
my  conduct  of  late ;  I  mean.t  to  be 
reserved, — I  have  been  rude,  —  but 
you  shall  judge  me.  A  year  ago  you 
made  me  some  proposals  ;  I  rejected 
them  because,  though  I  like  you  —  " 

"  You  like  me  ?  " 

"  I  detest  your  character.  Since 
then,  my  West  India  estate  has  been 
turned  into  specie ;  that  specie,  the 
bulk  of  my  fortune,  placed  on  board 
a  vessel ;  that  vessel  lost,  at  least  we 
think  so,  —  she  has  not  been  heard 
of." 

"My  dear  cousin." 

"  Do  you  comprehend  that  now  I 
am  cooler  than  ever  to  all  young 
gentlemen  who  have  large  incomes, 
8 


and  "  (holding  out  her  hand  like  an 
angel)  "  I  must  trouble  you  to  for- 
give me." 

He  kissed  her  lovely  hand. 

"  I  esteem  you  more  and  more," 
said  he. 

"  You  ought,  for  it  has  been  a  hard 
struggle  to  me  not  to  adore  you, 
because  you  are  so  improved,  man 
cousin." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  In  what  respect  ? " 

"  You  are  browner  and  charitabler ; 
and  I  should  have  been  very  kind  to 
you,  —  mawkishly  kind,  I  "fear,  my 
sweet  cousin,  if  this  wretched  money 
had  not  gone  down  in  the  '  Tisbe.'  " 

"  Hallo  !  "  cried  the  Viscount. 

"  Ah !  "  squeaked  Lady  Barbara, 
unused  to  such  interjections. 

"  Gone  down  in  what  ?  "  said  Ips- 
den, in  a  loud  voice. 

"  Don't  bellow  in  people's  ears. 
The  '  Tisbe/  stupid,  cried  she, 
screaming  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

"  Hi  turn,  ti  turn,  ti  turn,  turn,  turn, 
tiddy,  iddy,"  went  Lord  Ipsden,  — 
he  whistled  a  polka. 

Ladji  Barbara  (inspecting  him  grave- 
ly). "  I  have  heard  it  at  a  distance, 
but  I  never  saw  how  it  was  done  be- 
fore. It  is  very,  very  pretty  I !  !  !" 

Ipsden.     "  Polkez-vous,  madame  ?  " 

Lady  Barb.  "  Si,  je  polke,  Mon- 
sieur le  Vicomte." 

They  polked  for  a  second  or  two. 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  I  am  wrong," 
cried  Lady  Barbara,  "  but  I  like  you 
better  now  you  are  a  downright  — 
ahem  !  —  than  when  you  were  only 
an  insipid  non-intellectual  —  you  are 
greatly  improved." 

Ins.  "  In  what  respects  ?  " 

Lady  Barb.  "  Did  I  not  tell  3-011  ? 
browner  and  more  impudent ;  but 
tell  me,"  said  she,  resuming  her  sly, 
satirical  tone,  "how  is  it  that  you, 
Avho  used  to  be  the  pink  of  courtesy, 
dance  and  sing  over  the  wreck  of  my 
fortunes  ?  " 

"Because  they  are  not  wrecked." 

"  I  thought  I  told  you  my  specie  is 
gone  down  in  the  '  Tisbe.'  " 

Ipsden.  "  But  the  '  Tisbe '  has  not 
gone  down." 


170 


CIirJSTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


Lady  Barb.  "  I  tell  you  it  is." 
Ipsden.  "  I  assure  you  it  is  not." 
Ladif  Barb.  "  It  is  riot  ?  " 
Ipsden.  "Barbara!  I  am  too  hap- 

Ey,  I  begin  to  nourish  such  sweet 
opes  once  more.  O,  I  could  fall  on 
my  knees  and  bless  you  for  something 
you  said^ust  now." 

Lady  Barbara  blushed  to  the  tem- 
ples. 

."  Then  why  don't  you?  "  said  she. 
"  All  you  want  is  a  little  enthusiasm." 
Then  recovering  herself,  she  said  :  — 

"  You  kneel  on  wet  sand,  with 
black  trousers  on;  that  will  never 
be ! ! ! " 

These  two  were  so  occupied  that 
they  did  not  observe  the  approach  of 
a  stranger  until  he  broke  in  upon 
their  dialogue. 

An  Ancient  Mariner  had  been  for 
some  minutes  standing  off  and  on, 
reconnoitring  Lord  Ipsden ;  he  now 
bore  down,  and  with  great  rough, 
roaring  cordiality,  that  made  Lady 
Barbara  start,  cried  out :  — 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  sir,  —  give 
me  your  hand,  if  you  were  twice  a 
Lord. 

"  I  could  n't  speak  to  yon  till  the 
brig  was  safe  in  port,  and  you  slipped 
away,  but  I  've  brought  you  up  at 
last ;  and  —  give  me  your  hand  again, 
sir.  I  say,  is  n't  it  a  pity  you  are  a 
Lord  instead  of  a  sailor  ?  " 

Ipsden.  "  But  I  am  a  sailor." 

Ancient  Mariner.  "  That  ye  are, 
and  as  smart  a  one  as  ever  tied  a  true- 
lover's  knot  in  the  top ;  but  tell  the 
truth,  — you  were  never  nearer  losing 
the  number  of  your  mess  than  that 
day  in  the  old  '  Tisbe.'  " 

Lady  Barb.  "  The  old  '  Tisbe '  ! 
Oh!" 

Ipsden.  "  Do  you  remember  that 
nice  little  lurch  she  gave  to  leeward 
as  we  brought  her  round  ?  " 

Lady  Barb.  "  O  Richard !  " 

Ancient  Mariner.  "  And  that  reel 
the  old  wench  gave  under  our  feet, 
north  the  pier-head.  I  would  n't 
have  given  a  washing-tub  for  her  at 
that  moment." 

Ipsdm.    "  Past    -danger    becomes 


pleasure,  sir.  dim  et  hire  meminisse 
—  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

Ancient  Mariner  (taking  off"  his  hat 
icith  feeliny).  "God  bless  ye,  sir,  and 
send  ye  many  happy  days,  and  well 
spent,  with  the  pretty  lady  I  sec 
alongside  ;  asking  your  pardon,  miss, 
for  parting  pleasanter  company,  —  so 
I  '11  sheer  off." 

And  away  went  the  skipper  of  the 
"  Tisbe,"  rolling  fearfully.  In  the 
heat  of  this  reminiscence,  the  skipper 
of  the  yacht(  they  are  all  alike,  blue  wa- 
ter once  fairly  tasted)  had  lost  sight 
of  Lady  Barbara  ;  he  now  looked 
round.  Imagine  his  surprise  ! 

Her  Ladyship  was  in  tears. 

"  Dear  Barbara,"  said  Lord  Ipsden, 
"  do  not  distress  yourself  on  my  ac- 
count." 

•'  It  is  not  your  fe-feelings  I  care 
about ;  at  least,  I  h-h-hopc  not ;  but 
I  have  been  so  unjust,  and  I  prided 
myself  so  on  my  j-ju-justice." 

"  Never  mind  !  " 

"  Oh  !  if  you  don't,  I  don't.  I  hate 
myself,  so  it  is  no  wonder  you  h-hate 
me." 

"  I  love  you  more  than  ever." 

"  Then  you  are  a  good  soul !  Of 
course  you  know  I  always  /-esteemed 
you,  Richard." 

"  No !  I  had  an  idea  you  despised 
me! " 

"  How  silly  you  are !  Can't  yon 
see  ?  When  I  thought  you  were  not 
perfection,  which  you  arc  now,  it 
vexed  me  to  death ;  you  never  saw 
me  affront  any  one  but  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  did  !  "What  does 
that  prove  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  the  wit  of  him 
that  reasons  thereon."  (Coming  to 
herself. ) 

"  I  love  you,  Barbara !  Will  you 
honor  me  with  your  hand  ?  " 

"  No  !  I  am  not  so  base,  so  selfish  : 
you  are  worth  a  hundred  of  me,  and 
here  have  I  been  treating  you  de  haut 
en  bos.  Dear  Richard,  poor  Richard. 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  "  (A  perfect  flood  of 
tears.) 

"  Barbara !  I  regret  nothing ;  this 
moment  pays  for  all." 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTONE. 


171 


"  Well,  then,  I  will !  since  you  keep 
pressing  me.  There,  let  me  go ;  I 
must  be  alone ;  I  must  tell  the  sea 
how  unjust  I  was,  and  how  happy  I 
am,  and  when  you  see  me  again  you 
shall  see  the  better  side  of  your  cousin 
Barbara." 

She  was  peremptory.  "  She  had 
her  folly  and  his  merits  to  think  over," 
she  said ;  but  she  promised  to  pass 
through  Newhaven,  and  he  should 
put  her  into  her  pony-phaeton,  which 
would  meet  her  there. 

Lady  Barbara  was  only  a  fool  by 
the  excess  of  her  wit  over  her  experi- 
ence ;  and  Lord  Ipsden's  love  was  not 
misplaced,  for  she  had  a  great  heart 
which  she  hid  from  little  people.  I 
forgive  her ! 

The  resolutions  she  formed  in  com- 
pany with  the  sea,  having  dismissed 
Ipsden,  and  ordered  her -flunky  into 
the  horizon,  will  probably  give  our 
Viscount  just  half  a  century  of  conju- 
gal bliss. 

As  ho  was  going,  she  stopped  him 
and  said  :  "  Your  friend  had  browner 
hands  than  I  have  hitherto  conceived 
possible.  To  tdltke  truth,  I  took  them 
for  the  claws  of  a  mahogany  table 
when  he  grappled  you,  —  is  that  the 
term  1  C'cst  e'f/al  —  I  like  him  —  " 

She  stopped  him  again.  "  Ips- 
den, in  the  midst  of  all  this  that 
poor  man's  ship  is  broken.  I  feel 
it  is  !  You  will  buy  him  another, 
if  you  really  love  me,  —  for  I  like 
him." 

And  so  these  lovers  parted  for  a 
time ;  and  Lord  Ipsden  with  a  bound- 
ing heart  returned  to  Newhaven.  He 
went  to  entertain  his  late  vis-a-vis  at 
the  "Peacock." 

Mean  time  a  shorter  and  less  pleasant 
rencontre  had  taken  place  between 
Leith  and  that  village. 

Gatty  felt  he  should  meet  his  lost 
sweetheart ;  and  sure  enough,  at  a 
turn  of  the  road,  Christie  and  Jean 
came  suddenly  upon  him. 

Jean  nodded,  but  Christie  took  no 
notice  of  him ;  they  passed  him ;  he 
turned  and  followed  them,  and  said, 
"  Christie ! "  -  -  •  * 


"  What  is  your  will  wi'  me  ?  "  said 
she,  coldly. 

"I — I —    How  pale  you  are !" 

"  I  am  no  very  weel." 

"  She  has  been  watching  over 
muckle  wi'  Fluckcr,"  said  Jean. 

Christie  thanked  her  with  a  look. 

"  I  hope  it  is  not  —  not  —  " 

"  Nae  fears,  lad,"  said  she,  brisk- 
ly;  "I  dinna  think  that  muckle  o' 

ye." 

"  And  I  think  of  nothing  but  you," 
said  he. 

A  deep  flush  crimsoned  the  young 
woman's  brow,  but  she  restrained 
herself,  and  said  icily  :  "  Thaat  's  very 
gude  o'  ye,  I  'in  sure." 

Gatty  felt  all  the  contempt  her 
manners  and  words  expressed.  He 
bit  his  lips :  the  tear  started  to  his 
eye.  "  You  will  forget  me,"  said 
he :  "  I  do  not  deserve  to  be  remem- 
bered, but  I  shall  never  forget  you. 
I  leave  for  England  :  I  leave  New- 
haven  forever,  where  I  have  been  so 
happy.  I  am  going  at  three  o'clock 
by  the  steamboat :  won't  you  bid  me 
good  by  ?  "  he  approached  her  timid- 
ly- 

"Ay !  that  wull  do,"  cried  she ; 
"  Gude  be  wi'  ye,  lad ;  I  wish  ye  nae 
ill."  She  gave  a  commanding  ges- 
ture of  dismissal ;  he  turned  away, 
and  went  sadly  from  her. 

She  watched  every  motion  when  his 
back  was  turned. 

"  That  is  you,  Christie,"  said  Jean  ; 
"  use  the  lads  like  dirt,  an'  they  think 
a'  the  mair  o'  ye." 

"  0  Jean,  my  hairt  's  broken.  I  'm 
just  deeing  for  him." 

"  Let  me  speak  till  him  then,"  said 
Jean ;  "  I  '11  sune  bring  him  till  his 
marrow-banes  "  ;  and  she  took  a  hasty 
step  to  follow  him. 

Christie  held  her  fast.  "I'd  dee 
ere  I  'd  give  in  till  them.  O  Jean ! 
I  'm  a  lassie  clean  flung  awa ;  he  has 
neither  hairt  nor  spunk  ava,  yon 
lad ! " 

Jean  began  to  make  excuses  for 
him :  Christie  inveighed  against  him  : 
Jean  spoke  up  for  him  with  more 
earnestness. 


172 


CHEISTIE  JOHSSTOSE. 


Now  observe,  Jean  despised  the 
poor  boy. 

Christie  adored  him. 

So  Jean  spoke  for  him,  because  wo- 
men of  every  degree  are  often  one  sol- 
id mass  of  tact ;  and  Christie  abused 
him,  because  she  wanted  to  hear  him 
defended. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

RICHARD,  Lord  Viscount  Ipsdcn, 
having  dotted  the  sea-shore  with  sen- 
tinels, to  tell  him  of  Lady  Barbara's 
approach,  awaited  his  guest  in  the 
"  Peacock  " ;  but,  as  Gatty  was  a  little 
behind  time,  he  placed  Saunders  sen- 
tinel over  the  "  Peacock,"  and  strolled 
eastward ;  as  he  came  out  of  the ."  Pea- 
cock," Mrs.  Gatty  came  down  the  lit- 
tle hill  in  front,  and  also  proceeded 
eastward  ;  meantime  Lady  Barbara 
and  her  escort  were  not  far  from  the 
New  Town  of  Newhaven,  on  their  way 
from  Leith. 

Mrs.  Gatty  came  down,  merely 
with  a  vague  fear.  She  had  no  rea- 
son to  suppose  her  son's  alliance  with 
Christie  either  would  or  could  be  re- 
newed, but  she  was  a  careful  player 
and  would  not  give  a  chance  away; 
she  found  he  was  gone  out  unusually 
early,  so  she  came  straight  to  the 
only  place  she  dreaded ;  it  was  her 
son's  last  day  in  Scotland.  She  had 
packed  his  clothes,  and  he  had  in- 
spired her  with  confidence  by  arrang- 
ing pictures,  &c.,  himself;  she  had  no 
idea  he  was  packing  for  his  departure 
from  this  life,  not  Edinburgh  only. 

She  came  then  to  Newhaven  with 
no  serious  misgivings,  for,  even  if  her 
son  had  again  vacillated,  she  saw  that, 
with  Christie's  pride  and  her  own 
firmness,  the  game  must  be  hers  in 
the  end ;  but,  as  I  said  before,  she  was 
one  who  played  her  cards  closely,  and 
such  seldom  lose. 

But  my  story  is  with  the  two  young 
fishwives,  who,  on  their  return  from 
Leith,  found  themselves  at  the  foot 
of  the  New  Town,  Newhaven,  some 


minutes  before  any  of  the  other  per- 
sons who,  it  is  to  be  observed,  were 
approaching  it  from  different  points  ; 

I  they  came  slowly  in,  Christie  in  par- 
ticular, with  a  listlessness  she  had 
never  known  till  this  last  week ;  for 
some  days  her  strength  had  failed  her, 
—  it  was  Jean  that  carried  the  creel 
now,  —  before,  Christie,  in  the  pride  of 
her  strength,  would  always  do  more 
than  her  share  of  their  joint  labor:  then 
she  could  hardly  be  forced  to  eat,  and 
what  she  did  eat  was  quite  tasteless 
to  her,  and  sleep  left  her,  and  in  its 

j  stead    came    uneasy    slumbers,  from 

,  which  she  awoke  quivering  from  head 
to  foot. 

Oh !  perilous  venture  of  those  who 

,  love  one  object  with  the  whole  heart. 
This  great   but   tender  heart   was 

1  breaking  day  by  day. 

Well,  Christie  and  Jean,  strolling 
slowly  into  the  New  Town  of  Xew- 

|  haven,  found  an  assemblage  of  the 
natives  all  looking  seaward ;  the  fish- 

;  ermen,  except  Sandy  Listen,  were 
away  at  the  herring  fishery,  but  all 
the  boys  and  women  of  the  New 

r  Town  were  collected  ;  the  girls  felt  a 
momentary  curiosity  ;  it  proved,  how- 
ever, to  be  only  an  individual  swim- 
ming in  towards  shore  from  a  greater 
distance  than  usual. 

A  little  matter  excites  curiosity  in 
such  places. 

The  man's  head  looked  like  a  spot 
of  ink. 

Sandy  Listen  was  minding  his  own 
business,  lazily  mending  a  skait-nct, 
which  he  had  attached  to  a  crazy  old 

:  herring-boat  hauled  up  to  rot. 

Christie  sat  down,  pale  and  lan- 
guid, by  him,  on  a  creepie  that  a  lass 
who  had  been  baiting  a  line  with 
mussels  had  just  vacated ;  suddenly 
she  seized  Jean's  arm  with  a  convul- 
sive motion  ;  Jean  looked  up,  —  it 
was  the  London  steamboat  running 
out  from  Leith  to  Granton  Pier  to 
take  up  her  passengers  for  London. 
Charles  Gatty  was  going  by  that 
boat ;  the  look  of  mute  despair  the 
poor  girl  gave  went  to  Jean's  heart ; 
she  ran  hastily  from  the  group,  and 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


173 


cried  out  of  sight  for  poor  Chris- 
tie. 

A  fishwife,  looking  through  a  tel- 
escope at  the  swimmer,  remarked : 
"He's  coming  in  fast;  he's  a  gallant 
swimmer  yon  —  " 

"  Can  he  dee  't  ?  "  inquired  Chris- 
tie of  Sandy  Listen. 

"  Fine  thaat,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  he 
does  it  aye  o'  Sundays  when  ye  are 
at  the  kirk." 

"  It 's  no  oot  o'  the  kirk-window 
ye  '11  hae  seen  him,  Sandy,  my  mon," 
said  a  young  fishwife. 

"  Rin  for  my  glass  ony  way,  Fluck- 
er,"  said  Christie,  forcing  herself  to 
take  some  little  interest. 

Fluckcr  brought  it  to  her,  she  put 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  got  slowly 
up,  and  stood  on  the  creepie,  and  ad- 
justed the  focus  of  her  glass ;  after  a 
short  view,  she  said  to  Fluckcr :  — 

"  Rin  and  see  the  nock."  She  then 
levelled  her  glass  again  at  the  swim- 
mer. 

Fluckcr  informed  her  the  nock  said 
"  half  eleven,"  —  Scotch  for  "  half 
past  ten." 

Christie  whipped  out  a  well- 
thumbed  almanac. 

"  Yon  nock 's  aye  ahint,"  said 
she.  She  swept  the  sea  once  more 
with  her  glass,  then  brought  it  to- 
gether with  a  click,  and  jumped  off  the 
stool :  her  quick  intelligence  viewed 
the  matter  differently  from  all  the 
others. 

"  Noow,"  cried  she,  smartly,  "wha 
'11  lend  me  his  yawl  7  " 

"  Hets  !  dinna  be  sae  interferin, 
lassie,"  said  a  fishwife. 

"  Hae  nane  o'  ye  ony  spunk  ?  " 
said  Christie,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
woman.  "  Speak,  laddies  !  " 

"  M'  uncle  s  yawl  is  at  the  pier- 
head ;  ye  '11  get  her,  my  woman," 
said  a  boy. 

"  A  schell'n  for  wha 's  first  on 
board,"  said  Christie,  holding  up  the 
coin. 

"  Come  awa',  Flucker,  we  '11  hae 
her  schell'n  " ;  and  these  two  worthies 
instantly  effected  a  false  start. 

"  It 's  no  under  your  jackets,"  said 


Christie,  as   she  dashed  after  them 
like  the  wind. 

"  Haw !  haw !  haw ! "  laughed  San- 

"  What 's  her  business  picking  up 
a  mon  against  his  will  ?  "  said  a  wo- 
man. 

"  She  's  an  awfu'  lassie,"  whined 
another. 

The  examination  of  the  swimmer 
was  then  continued,  and  the  crowd 
increased ;  some  would  have  it  he 
was  rapidly  approaching,  others  that 
he  made  little  or  no  way. 

"  Wha  est  ?  "  said  another. 

"  It 's  a  lummy,"  said  a  girl. 

"  Na !  it 's  no  a  lummy,"  said 
another. 

Christie's  boat  was  now  seen  stand- 
ing out  from  the  pier.  Sanely  Lis- 
ton,  casting  a  contemptuous  look  on 
all  the  rest,  lifted  himself  lazily  in- 
to the  herring-boat  and  looked  sea- 
ward. His  manner  changed  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  The  Deevil !  "  cried  he  >\  "  the 
tide 's  turned  !  You  wi'  your  glass, 
could  you  no  see  yon  man  's  drifting 
oot  to  sea  ?  " 

"  Hech  ! "  cried  the  women,  "  he  '11 
be  drooned,  —  he  '11  be  drooned  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  '11  be  drooned  !  "  cried 
Sandy,  "  if  yon  lassie  does  na  come 
alongside  him  deevelich  quick,  —  he 's 
sair  spent,  I  doot." 

Two  spectators  were  now  added  to 
the  scene,  Mrs.  Gatty  and  Lord  Ips- 
den.  Mrs.  Gatty  inquired  what  was 
the  matter. 

"  It 's  a  mon  drooning,"  was  the 
reply. 

The  poor  fellow,  whom  Sandy,  by 
aid  of  his  glass,  now  discovered  to  be 
in  a  worn-out  condition,  was  about 
half  a  mile  east  of  Newhaven  pier- 
head, and  unfortunately  the  wind  was 
nearly  due  east.  Christie  was  stand- 
ing north-northeast,  her  boat-hook 
jammed  against  the  sail,  which  stood 
as  flat  as  a  knife. 

The  natives  of  the  Old  Town  were 
now  seen  pouring  down  to  the  pier 
and  the  beach,  and  strangers  were 
collecting  like  bees. 


174 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


"  After  wit  is  everybody's  wit ! ! ! " 
—  Old  Proverb. 

The  aft'air  was  in  the  Johnstone's 
hands. 

"  That  boat  is  not  going  to  the 
poor  man,"  said  Mrs.  Gatty,  "  it  is 
turning  its  buck  upon  him." 

"  She  canna  lie  in  the  wind's  eye, 
for  as  clever  as  she  is,"  answered  a 
fishwife. 

"  I  ken  wha  it  is,"  suddenly 
squeaked  a  little  fishwife  ;  "  it  rs 
Christie  Johnstone's  lad ;  it 's  yon 
daft  painter  fr'  England.  Hecti  !  " 
cried  she,  suddenly,  observing  Mrs. 
Gatty,  "it 's  your  son,  woman." 

The  unfortunate  woman  gave  a 
fearful  scream,  and,  flying  like  a  tiger 
on  Listen,  commanded  him  "  to  go 
straight  out  to  sea  and  save  her 
son." 

Jean  Carnie  seized  her  arm.  "  Div 
ve  sec  yon  boat  ?  "  cried  she ;  "  and  div 
ye  mind  Christie,  the  lass  wha 's  hairt 
ye  hac  broken  ?  aweel,  woman,  —  it 's 
just  a  race  between  deeth  and  Cirsty 
Johnstone  for  your  son." 

The  poor  old  woman  swooned 
dead  away  ;  they  carried  her  into 
Christie  Johnstone's  house,  and  laid 
her  down,  then  hurried  back,  —  the 
greater  terror  absorbed  the  less. 

Lady  Barbara  Sinclair  was  there 
from  Leith  ;  and,  seeing  Lord  Ipsden 
standing  in  the  boat  with  a  fisherman, 
she  asked  him  to  tell  her  what  it 
was  ;  neither  he  nor  any  one  answered 
her. 

"  Why  doesn't  she  come  about, 
Listen  ?  "  cried  Lord  Ipsden,  stamp- 
ing with  anxiety  and  impatience. 

"She'll  no  be  lang,"  said  Sandy; 
"but  they'll  mak  a  mess  o'  5t  wi' 
ne'er  a  man  i'  the  boat." 

"  Ye  're  sure  o'  thaat  ?  "  put  in  a 
woman. 

"  Ay,  about  she  comes,"  said  Lis- 
ton,  as  the  sail  came  down  on  the 
first  tack.  He  was  mistaken ;  they 
dipped  the  lug  as  cleverly  as  any  man 
in  the  town  could. 

"  Hech  !  look  at  her  hauling  on  the 
rope  like  a  mon,"   cried  a  woman.  , 
The  sail  flew  up  on  the  other  tack.      | 


"  She  'a  an  awfu'  lassie,"  whined 
another. 

"  He 's  awa,"  groaned  Listen,  "  he  'a 
doon  ! " 

"  Xo  !  he  's  up  again,"  cried  Lord 
Ipsden  ;  "  but  I  fear  he  can't  live  till 
the  boat  comes  to  him." 

The  fisherman  and  the  Viscount 
held  on  by  each  other. 

"  He  does  na  see  her,  or  maybe  he  'd 
tak  hairt." 

"  I  'd  give  ten  thousand  pounds  if 
only  he  could  see  her.  My  God,  the 
man  will  be  drowned  under  our  eyes. 
If  he  but  saw  her  !  !  !  " 

The  words  had  hardly  left  Lord 
Ipsden's  lips,  when  the  sound  of  a 
woman's  voice  came  like  an  ^Eolian 
note  across  the  water. 

"  Hurraih  !  "  roared  Listen,  and 
every  creature  joined  the  cheer. 

"  She  '11  no  let  him  dee.  Ah ! 
she's  in  the  bows,  hailing  him  an' 
waving  the  lad's  bonnet  ower  her 
head  to  gie  him  coorage.  Gude  bless 
ye,  lass ;  Gude  bless  ye !  " 

Christie  knew  it  was  no  use  hail- 
ing him  against  the  wind,  but  the  mo- 
ment she  got  the  wind  she  darted  into 
the  bows,  and  pitched  in  its  highest 
key  her  full  and  brilliant  voice  ; 
after  a  moment  of  suspense  she  re- 
ceived proof  that  she  must  be  heard 
by  him,  for  on  the  pier  now  hung 
men  and  women,  clustered  like  bees, 
breathless  with  anxiety,  and  the  mo- 
ment after  she  hailed  the  drowning 
man,  she  saw  and  heard  a  wild  yell 
of  applause  burst  from  the  pier,  and 
the  pier  was  more  distant  than  the 
man.  She  snatched  Flucker's  cap, 
planted  her  foot  on  the  gunwale,  held 
on  by  a  rope,  hailed  the  poor  fellow 
again,  and  waved  the  cap  round  and 
round  her  head,  to  give  him  courage ; 
and  in  a  moment,  at  the  sight  of  this, 
thousands  of  voices  thundered  back 
their  cheers  to  her  across  the  water. 
Blow,  wind,  —  spring,  boat,  —  and 
you,  Christie,  still  ring  life  towards 
those  despairing  ears,  and  wave  hope 
to  those  sinking  eyes  ;  cheer  the  boat 
on,  you  thousands  that  look  upon 
this  action ;  hurrah !  from  the  pier ; 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


hurrah !  from  the  town ;  hurrah  !  from 
the  shore ;  hurrah !  now,  from  the 
very  ships  in  the  roads,  whose  crews 
arc  swarming  on  the  yards  to  look ; 
five  minutes  ago  they  laughed  at  you ; 
three  thousand  eyes  and  hearts  hang 
upon  you  now ;  ay,  these  are  the  mo- 
ments we  live  for ! 

And  now  dead  silence.  The  boat 
is  within  fifty  yards,  they  are  all  three 
consulting  together  round  the  mast ; 
an  error  now  is  death  ;  his  forehead 
only  seems  above  water. 

"  If  they  miss  him  on  that  tack  ?  " 
said  Lord  Ipsden,  significantly,  to 
Liston. 

"  He  '11  never  see  London  Brigg 
again,"  was  the  whispered  reply. 

They  carried  on  till  all  on  shore 
thought  they  would  run  over  him,  or 
past  him  ;  but  no,  at  ten  yards  dis- 
tant they  were  all  at  the  sail,  and  had 
it  down  like  lightning ;  and  then 
Flucker  sprang  to  the  bows,  the  other 
boy  to  the  helm. 

Unfortunately,  there  were  but  two 
Johnstones  in  the  boat ;  and  this  boy, 
in  his  hurry,  actually  put  the  helm  to 
port,  instead  of  to  starboard.  Chris- 
tie, who  stood  amidships,  saw  the  er- 
ror; she  sprang  aft,  flung  the  boy 
from  the  helm,  and  jammed  it  hard- 
a-starboard  with  her  foot.  The  boat 
answered  the  helm,  but  too  late  for 
Thicker ;  the  man  was  four  yards 
from  him  as  the  boat  drifted  by. 

"  He 's  a  deed  mon  !  "  cried  Liston, 
on  shore. 

The  boat's  length  gave  one  more 
little  chance ;  the  after  -  part  must 
drift  nearer  him,  —  thanks  to  Christie. 
Flucker  flew  aft ;  flung  himself  on 
his  back,  and  seized  his  sister's  pet- 
ticoats. 

"  Fling  yourself  ower  the  gun- 
wale," screamed  he.  "  Ye  '11  no  hurt ; 
I  'se  hand  ye." 

She  flung  herself  boldly  over  the 
gunwale ;  the  man  was  sinking,  her 
nails  touched  his  hair,  her  fingers 
entangled  therpselvcs  in  it,  she  gave 
him  a  powerful  wrench  and  brought 
him  alongside ;  the  boys  pinned  him 
like  wild-cats. 


Christie  darted  away  forward  to 
the  mast,  passed  a  rope  round  it, 
threw  it  the  boys,  in  a  moment  it  was 
under  his  shoulders.  Christie  hauled 
on  it  from  the  fore  thwart,  the  boys 
lifted  him,  and  they  tumbled  him, 
gasping  and  gurgling  like  a  dying 
salmon,  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
and  flung  net  and  jackets  and  sail 
over  him,  to  keep  the  life  in  him. 

Ah  !  draw  your  breath  all  hands  at 
sea  and  ashore,  and  don't  try  it  again, 
young  gentleman,  for  there  was  noth- 
ing to  spare ;  when  you  were  missed 
at  the  bow  two  stout  hearts  quivered 
for  you ;  Lord  Ipsden  hid  his  face  in 
his  two  hands,  Sandy  Liston  gave  a 
groan,  and,  when  you  were  grabbed 
astern,  jumped  out  of  his  boat,  and 
cried :  — 

"  A  gill  o'  whiskey  for  ony  favor, 
for  it 's  turned  me  as  sceck  as  a  doeg." 
He  added  :  "  He  may  bless  yon  lassie's 
fowr  banes,  for  she 's  taen  him  oot  o' 
Death's  maw,  as  sure  as  Gude's  in 
heaven  ! " 

Lady  Barbara,  who  had  all  her  life 
been  longing  to  see  perilous  adven- 
tures, prayed,  and  trembled,  and  cried 
most  piteously;  and  Lord  Ipsden's 
back  was  to  her,  and  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  her  voice ;  but  when  the  battle 
was  won,  and  Lord  Ipsden  turned  and 
saw  her,  she  clung  to  his  arm  and 
dried  her  tears;  and  then  the  Old 
Town  cheered  the  boat,  and  the  New 
Town  cheered  the  boat,  and  the  towns 
cheered  each  other ;  and  the  John- 
stones,  lad  and  lass,  set  their  sail, 
and  swept  back  in  triumph  to  the 
pier ;  so  then  Lady  Barbara's  blood 
mounted  and  tingled  in  her  veins  like 
fire.  "  O,  how  noble !  "  cried  she. 

"  Yes,  clearest,"  said  Ipsden.  "  You 
have  seen  something  great  done  at 
last ;  and  by  a  woman,  too  ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Barbara,  "  how  beauti- 
ful!  oh  !  how  beautiful  it  all  is ;  only 
the  next  one  I  see  I  should  like  the 
danger  to  be  over  first,  that  is  all." 

The  boys  and  Christie,  the  moment 
they  had  saved  Gatty,  up  sail  again 
for  Newhaven ;  they  landed  in  about 
three  minutes  at  the  pier. 


178 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTONE. 


TIME. 
From  Newhaven  town  to  pier  on 

foot '  1  m.  30  sec. 

First  tack         ....      5        30 
Second  tack,  and  getting  him  on 

board 4          0 

Back  to  the  pier,  going  free    .      3       30 


Total    . 


.  14        30 


They  came  in  to  the  pier,  Christie 
sitting  quietly  on  the  thwart  after  her 
work,  the  boy  steering,  and  Fluckcr 
standing  against  the  mast,  hands  in 
his  pockets;  the  deportment  this 
young  gentleman  thought  fit  to  as- 
sume on  this  occasion  was  "complete 
apathy  " ;  he  came  into  port  with  the 
air  of  one  bringing  home  the  ordinary 
results  of  his  day's  fishing ;  this  was, 
I  suppose,  to  impress  the  spectators 
with  the  notion  that  saving  lives  was 
an  every-day  affair  with  La  Famille 
Johnstone ;  as  for  Gatty,  he  came  to 
himself  under  his  heap  of  nets  and 
jackets,  and  spoke  once  between 
Death's  jaw  and  the  pier. 

"  Beautiful ! "   murmured  he,   and 
was  silent.     The  meaning  of  this  ob- 
servation never  transpired,  and  never 
will  in  this  world.     Six  months  after- 
wards, being  subjected  to  a  searching 
interrogatory,  he  stated  that  he  had 
alluded  to  the  majesty  and  freedom 
of  a  certain  pose  Christie  had  adopted 
whilst  hailing  him  from  the  boat ;  but,  1 
reader,  if  he  had  wanted  you  and  me  ; 
to  believe  it  was  this,  he  should  not 
have  been  half  a  year  finding  it  out, 
—  incredidi    odimus!     They    landed, 
and  Christie  sprang  on  shore  ;  whilst 
she  was   wending  her  way  through 
the    crowd,    impeded    by    greetings  j 
and    acclamations,   with    every  now  | 
and  then  a  lass  waving  her  kerchief  j 
or  a  lad  his  bonnet  over   the  hero- 
ine's head,  poor  Mrs.  Gatty  was  re- 
ceiving   the   attention    of    the  New 
Town  ;  they  brought  her  to,  they  told 
her  the  good  news,  —  she    thanked 
God. 

The  whole  story  had  spread  like 
wildfire  ;  they  expostulated  with  her, 
they  told  her,  now  was  the  time  to 
show  she  had  a  heart,  and  bless  the 
young  people. 


She  rewarded  them  with  a  valuable 
precept. 

"  Mind  your  own  business!"'  said 
she. 

"  Hech !  y5  are  a  dour  wife ! "  cried 
Newhaven. 

The  dour  wife  bent  her  eyes  on  the 
ground. 

The  people  were  still  collected  at 
the  foot  of  the  street,  but  they  were 
now  in  knots,  when  in  dashed  Thicker, 
arriving  by  a  short  cut,  and  crying  : 
"  She  does  na  ken,  she  does  na  ken, 
she  was  ower  moedest  to  look,  I  daur 
say,  and  ye  '11  no  tell  her,  for  he  's  a 
blackguard,  an'  he's  just  making  a 
fule  o'  the  puir  lass,  and  if  she  kens 
what  she  has  done  for  him,  she  '11  be 
fonder  o'  him  than  a  coow  o'  her 
cauf." 

"  O  Flncker !  we  maun  tell  her, 
it's  her  lad,  her  ain  lad,  she  saved," 
expostulated  a  woman. 

"  Did  ever  my  feyther  do  a  good 
turn  till  ye  ?  "  cried  Flucker.  "  A  \veel, 
then,  ye  '11  no  tell  the  lassie,  she 's 
weel  as  she  is ;  he 's  gatin  t'  Enngland 
the  day.  I  cannie  gie  ye  a'  a  hidin," 
said  he,  with  an  eye  that  flashed  vol- 
umes of  good  intention,  on  a  hundred 
and  fifty  people ;  "  but  I  am  fcyther- 
less  and  motherless,  an'  I  can  fa'  on 
my  knees  an'  curse  ye  a'  if  ye  do  us 
sic  an  ill  turn,  an'  then  ye '11  see 
whether  ye '11  thrive." 

"  We  fll  no  tell,  Flucker,  ye  need 
na  curse  us  ony  way." 

His  Lordship,  with  all  the  sharp 
authority  of  a  skipper,  ordered  Master 
Flucker  to  the  pier,  with  a  message  to 
the  yacht ;  Flucker  qua  yachtsman 
was  a  machine,  and  went  as  a  matter 
of  course.  "  I  am  determined  to  tell 
her,"  said  Lord  Ipsden  to  Lady  Bar- 
bara. 

"  But,"  remonstrated  Lady  Barbara, 
"  the  poor  boy  says  he  will  curse  us  if 
we  do." 

"  He  won't  curse  me." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"Because  the  little  blackguard's 
grog  would  be  stopped  on  board  the 
yacht  if  he  did." 

Flucker  had  not  been  gone  many 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


177 


minutes  before  loud  cheering  was 
heard,  and  Christie  Johnstone  ap- 
peared convoyed  by  a  large  detach- 
ment of  the  Old  Town  ;  she  had  tried 
to  slip  away,  but  they  would  not  let 
her.  They  convoyed  her  in  tri- 
umph till  they  saw  the  New  Town 
people,  and  then  they  turned  and  left 
her. 

She  came  in  amongst  the  groups,  a 
changed  woman,  —  her  pallor  and  her 
listlessness  were  gone,  —  the  old  light 
was  in  her  eye,  and  the  bright  color  in 
her  cheek,  and  she  seemed  hardly  to 
touch  the  earth. 

"I'm  just  droukit,  lasses,"  cried 
she,  gayly,  wringing  her  sleeve. 
Every  eye  was  upon  her ;  did  she 
know,  or  did  she  not  know,  what  she 
had  done  ? 

Lord  Ipsden  stepped  forward ;  the 
people  tacitly  accepted  him  as  the  ve- 
hicle of  their  curiosity. 

"  Who  was  it,  Christie  ? " 

"  I  dinna  ken,  for  my  pairt ! " 

Mrs.  Gatty  came  out  of  the  house. 

"  A  handsome  young  fellow,  I  hope, 
Christie  ?  "  resumed  Lord  Ipsden. 

"  Ye  maun  ask  Flacker,  was  the 
reply.  "I  could  no  tak  muckle  no- 
tice, ye  ken,"  putting  her  hand  before 
her  eye,  and  half  smiling. 

"  AVell !  I  hear  he  is  very  good  look- 
ing ;  and  I  hear  you  think  so  too." 

She  glided  to  him,  and  looked  in  his 
face.  He  gave  a  meaning  smile.  The 
poor  girl  looked  quite  perplexed.  Sud- 
denly she  gave  a  violent  start. 

"  Christie  !  where  is  Christie  1 "  had 
cried  a  well-known  voice.  He  had 
learned  on  the  pier  who  had  saved 
him,  —  he  had  slipped  up  among  the 
boats  to  find  her,  —  he  could  not  find 
his  hat,  — he  could  not  wait  for  it, — 
his  dripping  hair  showed  where  he  had 
been,  —  it  was  her  love  whom  she  had 
just  saved  out  of  Death's  very  jaws. 

She  gave  a  cry  of  love  that  went 
through  eveiy  heart,  high  or  low, 
young  or  old,  that  heard  it.  And 
she  went  to  him,  through  the  air  it 
seemed ;  but,  quick  as  she  was,  another 
was  as  qiiick ;  the  mother  had  seen 
him  first,  and' she  was  there.  Christie 
8* 


saw  nothing.  With  another  cry,  the 
very  key-note  of  her  great  and  loving 
heart,  she  flung  her  arms  round  — 
Mrs.  Gatty,  who  was  on  the  same  er- 
rand as  herself. 

"  Hearts  are  not  steel,  arid  steel  is  bent ; 
Hearts  are  not  flint,  and  flint  is  rent." 

The  old  woman  felt  Christie  touch 
her.  She  turned  from  her  son  in  a 
moment,  and  wept  upon  her  neck. 
Her  lover  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it, 
and  pressed  it  to  his  bosom,  and  tried 
to  speak  to  her ;  but  all  he  could  do 
was  to  sob  and  choke,  —  and  kiss  her 
hand  again. 

"  My  daughter  ! "  sobbed  the  old 
woman. 

At  that  word  Christie  clasped  her 
quickly  ;  and  then  Christie  began  to 
cry. 

"  I  am  not  a  stone,"  cried  Mrs/ Gat- 
ty. "  I  gave  him  life  ;  but  you  have 
saved  him  from  death.  O  Charles, 
never  make  her  repent  what  she  has 
done  for  you." 

She  was  a  woman  after  all ;  and 
prudence  and  prejudice  melted  like 
snow  before  her  heart. 

There  were  not  many  dry  eyes,  — 
least  of  all  the  heroic  Lady  Bar- 
bara's. 

The  three  whom  a  moment  had 
made  one  were  becoming  calmer,  and 
taking  one  another's  hands  for  life, 
when  a  diabolical  sound  arose,  —  and 
what  was  it  but  Sandy  Liston,  who, 
after  furious  resistance,  was  blubber- 
ing with  explosive  but  short-lived  vi- 
olence 7  Having  done  it,  he  was  the 
first  to  draw  everybody's  attention  to 
the  phenomenon ;  and  affecting  to 
consider  it  a  purely  physical  attack, 
like  a  coup  de  soleil,  or  so  on,  he  pro- 
ceeded instantly  to  Drysel's  for  his 
panacea. 

Lady  Barbara  enjoined  Lord  Ips- 
den to  watch  these  people,  and  not  to 
lose  a  word  they  said  ;  and,  after  she 
had  insisted  upon  kissing  Christie, 
she  went  off  to  her  carriage.  And 
she  too  was  so  happy,  she  cried  three 
distinct  times  on  her  way  to  Edin- 
burgh. 


178 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


Lord  Ipsden,  having  reminded 
Gatty  of  his  engagement,  begged  him 
to  add  his  motiier  and  Chrisiie  to  the 
party,  and  escorted  Lady  Barbara  to 
her  phaeton. 

So  then  the  people  dispersed  by 
degrees. 

"  That  old  lady's  face  seems  famil- 
iar to  me,"  said  Lord  Ipsden,  as  he 
stood  on  the  little  natural  platform 
by  the  "Peacock."  "Do  you  know 
who  she  is,  Saunders  1 " 

"  It  is  Peggy,  that  was  cook  in  your 
Lordship's  uncle's  time,  my  Lord. 
She  married  a  green-grocer,"  added 
Saunders,  with  an  injured  air. 

"  Hech  !  hech  !  "  cried  Flucker, 
"  Christie  has  ta'en  up  her  head  wi' 
a  cook's  son." 

Mrs.  Gatty  was  ushered  into  the 
"  Peacock,"  with  mock  civility,  by 
Mr.  Saunders.  No  recognition  took 
place,  each  being  ashamed  of  the  oth- 
er as  an  acquaintance. 

The  next  arrival  was  a  beautiful 
young  lady,  in  a  black  silk  gown,  a 
plain  but  duck-like  plaid  shawl,  who 
proved  to  be  Christie  Johnstone,  in 
her  Sunday  attire. 

When  they  met,  Mrs.  Gatty  gave  a 
little  scream  of  joy,  and  said  :  "  O 
my  child  ;  if  I  had  seen  you  in  that 
dress,  I  should  never  have  said  a 
word  against  you." 

"  Pars  minima  est  ipsa  puella  sui ! ' 

His  Lordship  stepped  up  to  her, 
took  off  his  hat,  and  said :  '.'  Will 
Mrs.  Gatty  take  from  me  a  commis- 
sion for  two  pictures,  as  big  as  her- 
self, and  as  bonny  ? "  added  he,  doing 
a  little  Scotch.  He  handed  her  a 
check ;  and,  turning  to  Gatty,  add- 
ed, "  At  your  convenience,  sir,  bien 
entendu." 

"  Hech  !  it 's  for  five  hundred  pund, 
Chairles." 

"  Good  gear  gangs  in  little  book,"  * 
said  Jean. 

"  Ay,  does  it,"  replied  Flucker,  as- 
suming the  compliment. 

"  My  Lord !  "  said  the  artist,  "  you 
treat  Art  like  a  prince ;  and  she  shall 
*  Bulk. 


treat  you  like  a  queen.  When  tho 
sun  eunies  out  again,  I  will  work  for 
you  and  fame.  You  shall  have  two 
things  painted,  every  stroke  loyally 
in  the  sunlight.  In  spite  of  gloomy 
winter  and  gloomier  London,  I  will 
try  if  I  can't  hang  nature  and  sum- 
mer on  your  Avails  forever.  As  for 
me,  you  know  I  must  go  to  Gerard 
Dow  and  Cuyp,  and  Pierre  de  Hoogh, 
when  my  little  sand  is  run  ;  but  my 
handwriting  shall  warm  your  chil- 
dren's children's  hearts,  sir,  when 
this  hand  is  dust."  His  eye  turned 
inwards,  he  walked  to  and  fro,  and 
his  companions  died  out  of  his  sight, 
—  he  was  in  the  kingdom  of  art. 

His  Lordship  and  Jean  entered  the 
"  Peacock,"  followed  by  Flucker, 
who  merely  lingered  at  the  door  to 
moralize  as  follows  :  — 

"  Hech  !  hech !  isna  thaat  lamenta- 
ble 1  Christie's  mon  's  as  daft  as  a 
drunk  weaver." 

But  one  stayed  quietly  behind,  and 
assumed  that  moment  the  office  of  her 
life. 

"  Ay !  "  he  burst  out  again,  "  the 
resources  of  our  art  are  still  unfathomcd  ! 
Pictures  are  yet  to  be  painted  that  shall 
refresh  men's  inner  souls,  and  help  their 
hearts  against  the  artificial  world ;  and 
charm  the  fiend  away,  like  David's 
harp !  !  The  world,  after  centuries  of 
lies,  will  give  nature  and  truth  a  trial. 
What  a  paradise  art  will  be,  when 
truths,  instead  of  lies,  shall  be  told  on  pa- 
per, on  marble,  on  canvas,  and  on  tite 
boards  !  I  I " 

"  Dinner 's  on  the  boarrd,"  mur- 
mured Christie,  alluding  to  Lord 
Ipsden's  breakfast ;  "  and  I  hae  the 
charge  o'  ye,"  pulling  his  sleeve,  hard 
enough  to  destroy  the  equilibrium  of 
a  flea 

"  Then  don't  let  us  waste  our  time 
here.  O  Christie !  " 

"  What  est,  my  laddy  ?  " 

"  I  'm  so  preciously  hungry  ! ! ! !  " 

"  C-way  *  then  !  " 

Off  they  ran,  hand  in  hand,  sparks 
of  beauty,  love,  and  happiness  flying 
all  about  them. 

*  Come  away. 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


179 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

* 

"  THERE  is  nothing  but  meeting 
and  parting  in  this  world  !  "  and  you 
may  be  sure  the  incongruous  person- 
ages of  our  tale  could  not  long  be  to- 
gether. Their  separate  paths  had 
met  for  an  instant,  in  one  focus,  fur- 
nished then  and  there  the  matter  of 
an  eccentric  story,  and  then  diverged 
forever. 

Our  lives  have  a  general  current, 
and  also  an  episode  or  two ;  and  the 
episodes  of  a  commonplace  life  .are 
often  rather  startling  ;  in  like  manner 
this  tale  is  not  a  specimen,  but  an 
episode  of  Lord  Ipsden  and  Lady 
Barbara,  who  soon  after  this  married 
and  lived  like  the  rest  of  the  beau  moiide. 
In  so  doing,  they  passed  out  of  my 
hands ;  such  as  wish  to  know  how 
Viscounts  and  Viscountesses  feed,  and 
sleep,  and  do  the  domestic  (so  called), 
and  the  social  (so  called),  are  referred 
to  the  fashionable  novel.  To  Mr. 
Saunders,  for  instance,  who  has  in 
the  press  one  of  those  cerbcrus-levia- 
thans  of  fiction,  so  common  now  ; 
incredible  as  folio  to  future  ages. 
Saunders  will  take  you  by  the  hand, 
and  lead  you  over  carpets  two  inches 
thick,  —  under  rosy  curtains,  —  to 
dinner-tables.  He  will  fete  you,  and 
opera  you,  and  dazzle  your  young 
imagination  with  fyergncs,  and  sal- 
vers, and  buhl,  and  ormolu.  No  fish- 
wives or  painters  shall  intrude  upon 
his  polished  scenes ;  all  shall  be  as 
genteel  as  himself.  Saunders  is  a 
good  authority  ;  he  is  more  in  the  so- 
ciety, and  far  more  in  the  confidence 
of  the  great,  than  most  fashionable 
novelists.  Mr.  Saunders's  work  will 
be  in  three  volumes ;  nine  hundred 
and  ninety  pages  !!!!!! 

In  other  words,  this  single  work,  of 
this  ingenious  writer,  will  equal  in 
bulk  the  aggregate  of  all  the  writings 
extant  by  Moses,  David,  Solomon, 
Isaiah,  and  St.  Paul ! ! ! 

I  shall  not  venture  into  competition 
with  this  behemoth  of  the  salon;  I 
will  evaporate  in  thin  generalities. 

Lord  Ipsden  then  lived  very  happi- 


ly with  Lady  Barbara,  whose  hero  he 
straightway  became,  and  who  nobly 
and  poetically  dotes  upon  him.  He  has 
gone  into  political  life  to  please  her, 
and  will  remain  there  —  to  please  him- 
self. They  were  both  very  grateful  to 
Newhaven  ;  when  they  married  they 
vowed  to  visit  it  twice  a  year,  and  min- 
gle a  fortnight's  simple  life  with  its 
simple  scenes ;  but  four  years  have 
passed,  and  they  have  never  been 
there  again,  and  I  dare  say  never  will ; 
but  when  Viscount  Ipsden  falls  in 
with  a  brother  aristocrat,  who  is 
\  crushed  by  the  fiend  ennui,  he  remem- 
bers Aberford,  and  condenses  his  fa- 
mous recipe  into  a  two-edged  hex- 
ameter, which  will  make  my  learned 
reader  laugh,  for  it  is  full  of  wis- 
dom :  — 

"  Diluculo  snrgas  !  miseris  succurrere    dis- 
cas  !  ' " 

Flucker  Johnstone  meditated  dur- 
ing breakfast  upon  the  five  hundred 
pounds,  and  regretted  he  had  not 
years  ago  adopted  Mr.  Gatty's  profes- 
sion ;  some  days  afterwards  he  invit- 
ed his  sister  to  a  conference.  Chairs 
being  set,  Mr.  Flucker  laid  down 
this  observation,  that  near  relations 
should  be  deuced  careful  not  to  cast 
discredit  upon  one  another;  that  now 
his  sister  was  to  be  a  lady,  it  was  re- 
pugnant to  his  sense  of  right  to  be  a 
fisherman  and  make  her  ladyship 
blush  for  him ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
felt  it  his  duty  to  rise  to  such  high 
consideration  that  she  should  be  proud 
of  him. 

Christie  acquiesced  at  once  in  this 
position,  but  professed  herself  embar- 
rassed to  know  how  such  a  "  ne'er-do- 
weel  "  was  to  be  made  a  source  of 
pride  ;  then  she  kissed  Flucker,  and 
said,  in  a  tone  somewhat  inconsistent 
with  the  above,  "  Tell  me,  my 
laamb ! " 

Her  lamb  informed  her  that  the 
sea  has  many  paths ;  some  of  them 
disgraceful,  such  as  line  or  net  fish- 
ing, and  the  periodical  laying  down, 
on  rocky  shoals,  and  taking  up  again, 
of  lobster-creels;  others,  superior  to 


180 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTOXE. 


anything  the  dry  land  can  offer  in 
importance  and  dignity  and  general 
estimation,  such  as  the  command  of 
a  merchant  vessel  trading  to  the  East 
or  West  Indies.  Her  lamb  then  sug- 
gested that  if  she  would  be  so  good 
as  to  launch  him  in  the  merchant- 
service,  with  a  good  rig  of  clothes 
and  money  in  his  pocket,  there  was 
that  in  his  head  which  would  enable 
him  to  work  to  windward  of  most  of 
his  contemporaries.  He  bade  her 
calculate  upon  the  following  results  : 
in  a  year  or  two  he  would  be  sec- 
ond mate,  and  next  year  first  mate, 
and  in  a  few  years  more  skipper ! 
Think  of  that,  lass  !  Skipper  of  a 
vessel,  whose  rig  he  generously  left 
his  sister  free  to  determine ;  premis- 
ing that  two  masts  were,  in  his  the- 
ory of  navigation,  indispensable,  and 
that  three  were  a  great  deal  more 
like  Cocker  than  two.  This  led  to  a 
general  consultation  ;  Flucker's  am- 
bition was  discussed  and  praised. 
That  modest  young  gentleman,  in 
spite  of  many  injunctions  to  the  con- 
trary, communicated  his  sister's  plans 
for  him  to  Lord  Ipsden,  and  affected 
to  doubt  their  prudence.  The  bait 
took  ;  Lord  Ipsden  wrote  to  his  man 
of  business,  and  an  unexpected  blow 
fell  upon  the  ingenious  Flucker.  He 
wras  sent  to  school ;  there  to  learn  a 
little  astronomy,  a  little  navigation,  a 
little  seamanship,  a  little  manners, 
&c. ;  in  the  mysteries  of  reading  and 
writing  his  sister  had  already  per- 
fected him  by  dint  of  "  the  taws." 
This  school  was  a  blow ;  but  Fluck- 
er was  no  fool ;  he  saw  there  was  no 
way  of  getting  from  school  to  sea 
without  working.  So  he  literally 
worked  out  to  sea.  His  first  voyage 
was  distinguished  by  the  following 
peculiarities :  attempts  to  put  tricks 
upon  this  particular  novice  generally 
ended  in  the  laugh  turning  against 
the  experimenters ;  and  instead  of 
drinking  his  grog,  which  he  hates, 
he  secreted  it,  and  sold  it  for  various 
advantages.  He  has  been  now  four 
voyages ;  when  he  comes  ashore,  in- 
stead of  going  to  haunts  of  folly  and 


vice,  he  instantly  bears  up  for  his 
sister's  house,  —  Kensington  Vj ravel- 
pits,  —  which  he  makes  in  the  follow- 
ing manner  :  he  goes  up  the  river, 
—  Heaven  knows  where  all,  —  this  he 
calls  running  down  the  longitude ; 
then  he  lands,  and  bears  down  upon 
the  Gravel-pits  ;  in  particular  knowl- 

!  edge  of  the  names  of  streets    he  is 

1  deficient,  but  he  knows  the  exact 
bearings  of  Christie's  dwelling.  He 

!  tacks  and  wears  according  as  mason- 
ry compels  him,  and  he  arrives  at 

I  the  gate.      He  hails  the  house,  in  a 

j  voice  that  brings  all  the  inhabitants 
of  the  row  to  their  windows,  includ- 

j  ing  Christie ;  he  is  fallen  upon  and 
dragged  into  the  house.  The  first 
thing  is,  he  draws  out  from  his  boots, 
and  his  back,  and  other  hiding-places, 
China  crape  and  marvellous  silk  hand- 
kerchiefs for  Christie ;  and  she  takes 
from  his  pocket  a  mass  of  Oriental 
sugar  -  plums,  with  which,  but  for 
this  precaution,  she  knows  by  expe- 
rience he  would  poison  young  Char- 
ley ;  and  soon  he  is  to  be  seen  sit- 
ting with  his  hand  in  his  sister's, 

!  and  she  looking  like  a  mother  upon 
his  handsome,  weather  -  beaten  face, 
and  Gatty  opposite,  adoring  him  as 
a  specimen  of  male  beauty,  and  some- 
times making  furtive  sketches  of  him. 
And  then  the  tales  he  always  brings 
with  him;  the  house  is  never  very 
dull,  but  it  is  livelier  than  ever  when 
this  inexhaustible  sailor  casts  anchor 
in  it. 

The  friends  (chiefly  artists)  who 
used  to  leave  at  9-30,  stay  till  eleven  ; 
for  an  intelligent  sailor  is  better  com- 

I  pany  than  two  lawyers,  two  bishops, 
three  soldiers,  and"  four  writers  of 
plays  and  tales,  all  rolled  together. 
And  still  he  tells  Christie  he  shall 
command  a  vessel  some  day,  and 
leads  her  to  the  most  cheering  in- 
ferences from  the  fact  of  his  prudence 
and  his  general  width-awake  ;  in  par-- 
ticular  he  bids  her  contrast  with  him 
the  general  fate  of  sailors,  eaten  up  by 
land-sharks,  particularly  of  the  female 
gender,  whom  he  demonstrates  to  be 
the  worst  enemies  poor  Jack  has  ;  he 


CHRISTIE  JOHXSTONE. 


181 


calls  these  sunken  rocks,  fire-ships, 
and  other  metaphors.  He  concludes 
thus  :  "  You  are  all  the  lass  I  mean 
to  have,  till  I  'm  a  skipper,  and  then 
I  '11  bear  up  alongside  some  pretty, 
decent  lass,  like  yourself,  Christie, 
and  we'll  sail  in  company  all  our 
lives,  let  the  wind  blow  high  or  low." 
Such  is  the  gracious  Flucker  become 
in  his  twentieth  year.  Last  voyage, 
with  Christie's  aid,  he  produced  a 
sextant  of  his  own,  and  "  made  it 
twelve  o'clock  "  (with  the  sun's  con- 
sent, I  hope),  and  the  eyes  of  authori- 
ty fell  upon  him.  So,  who  knows  ? 
perhaps  he  may  one  day  sail  a  ship  ; 
and,  if  he  does,  he  will  be  prouder 
and  happier  than  if  we  made  him 
monarch  of  the  globe. 

To  return  to  our  chiefs  ;  Mrs.  Gat- 
ty  gave  her  formal  consent  to  her  son's 
marriage  with  Christie  Jolmstone. 

There  were  examples.  Aristocracy 
had  ere  now  condescended  to  wealth ; 
earls  had  married  women  rich  by  tal- 
low-importing papas  ;  and  no  doubt, 
had  these  same  earls  been  consulted  in 
Gatty's  case,  they  would  have  decided 
that  Christie  Jolmstone,  with  her  real 
and  funded  property,  was  not  a  vil- 
lanous  match  for  a  green-grocer's  son, 
without  a  rapp  * ;  but  Mrs.  Gatty  did 
not  reason  so,  did  not  reason  at  all, 
luckily,  her  heart  ran  away  with  her 
judgment,  and,  her  judgment  ceasing 
to  act,  she  became  a  wise  woman. 

The  case  was  peculiar.  Gatty  was 
an  artist  pur  sang,  —  and  Christie, 
who  would  not  have  been  the  wife  for 
a  petit  maitre,  was  the  wife  of  wives 
for  him. 

He  wanted  a  beautiful  wife  to  em- 
bellish his  canvas,  disfigured  hitherto 
by  an  injudicious  selection  of  models ; 
a  virtuous  wife  to  be  his  crown  ;  a 
prudent  wife  to  save  him  from  ruin  ; 
a  cheerful  wife  to  sustain  his  spirits, 
drooping  at  times  by  virtue  of  his 
artist's  temperament;  an  intellectual 
wife  to  preserve  his  children  from 
being  born  dolts,  and  bred  dunces,  and 
to  keep  his  own  mind  from  sharpening 
to  one  point,  and  so  contracting  and  be- 
*  A  dimiautive  German  coin. 


coming  monomaniacal :  and  he  found 
all  these  qualities,  together  with  the 
sun  and  moon  of  human  existence, 
—  true  love  and  true  religion,  —  in 
Christie  Jolmstone. 

In  similar  cases,  foolish  men  have 
set  to  work  to  make,  in  six  months, 
their  diamond  of  nature,  the  exact 
cut  and  gloss  of  other  men's  pastes, 
and,  nervously  watching  the  process, 
have  suffered  torture;  luckily  Charles 
Gatty  was  not  wise  enough  for  this  ; 
he  saw  nature  had  distinguished  her 
he  loved  beyond  her  fellows  ;  here,  as 
elsewhere,  he  had  faith  in  nature,  — 
he  believed  that  Christie  would  charm 
everybody  of  eye,  and  ear,  and  mind, 
and  heart,  that  approached  her ;  he 
admired  her  as  she  was,  and  left  her 
to  polish  herself,  if  she  chose.  He 
did  well ;  she  came  to  London  with  a 
fine  mind,  a  broad  brogue,  a  delicate 
ear  ;  she  observed  how  her  husband's 
friends  spoke,  and  in  a  very  few 
months  she  had  toned  down  her 
Scotch  to  a  rich  Ionic  coloring,  which 
her  womanly  instinct  will  never  let 
her  exchange  for  the  thin,  vinegar 
accents  that  are  too  prevalent  in  Eng- 
lish and  French  society ;  and  in 
other  respects  she  caught,  by  easy 
gradation,  the  tone  of  the  new  society 
to  which  her  maniage  introduced  her, 
without,  however,  losing  her  charm- 
ing self. 

The  wise  dowager  lodges  hard  by, 
having  resisted  an  invitation  to  be  in 
the  same  house ;  she  comes  to  that 
house  to  assist  the  young  wife  with 
her  experience,  and  to  be  welcome,  — 
not  to  interfere  every  minute,  and 
tease  her ;  she  loves  her  daughter-in- 
law  almost  as  much  as  she  does  her 
son,  and  she  is  happy  because  he  bids 
fair  to  be  an  immortal  painter,  and, 
above  all,  a  gentleman ;  and  she,  a 
wifely  wife,  a  motherly  mother,  and, 
above  all,  a  lady. 

This,  then,  is  a  happy  couple. 
Their  life  is  full  of  purpose  and  in- 
dustry, yet  lightened  by  gayety  ;  they 
go  to  operas,  theatres,  and  balls,  for 
they  are  young.  They  have  plenty 
of  society,  real  society,  not  the  ill-as- 


182 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONE. 


sorted  collection  of  a  predetermined 
number  of  bodies,  that  blindly  assumes 
that  name,  but  the  rich  communica- 
tion of  various  and  fertile  minds  ; 
they  very,  very  seldom  consent  to 
squat  four  mortal  hours  on  one  chair 
(like  old  hares  stiffening  in  their  hot 
forms),  and  nibbling,  sipping,  and 
twaddling,  in  four  mortal  hours, 
what  could  have  been  eaten,  drunken,  I 
and  said,  in  thirty-five  minutes.  They 
are  both  artists  at  heart,  and  it  shocks 
their  natures  to  see  folks  mix  so  very 
largely  the  inutile  with  the  insipidum, 
anil  waste,  at  one  huge  but  barren 
incubation,  the  soul,  and  the  stomach, 
and  the  irrevocable  hours,  things 
with  which  so  much  is  to  be  done. 
But  they  have  many  desirable  ac- 
quaintances, and  not  a  few  friends; 
the  latter  are  mostly  lovers  of 
truth  in  their  several  departments, 
and  in  all  things :  among  them  are 
painters,  sculptors,  engineers,  writers, 
conversers,  thinkers ;  these  acknowl- 
edging, even  in  England,  other  gods 
besides  the  intestines,  meet  often  chez 
Gatty,  chiefly  for  mental  intercourse  ; 
a  cup  of  tea  with  such  is  found,  by 
experience,  to  be  better  than  a  stalled 
elk  where  chit-chat  reigns  over  the 
prostrate  hours. 

This,  then,  is  a  happy  couple ;  the 
very  pigeons  and  the  crows  need  not 
blush  for  the  nest  at  Kensington 
Gravel-pits.  There  the  divine  institu- 
tion Marriage  takes  its  natural  colors, 
and  it  is  at  once  pleasant  and  good 
to  catch  such  glimpses  of  Heaven's 
design,  and  sad  to  think  how  often 
this  great  boon,  accorded  by  God  to 
man  •  and  woman,  must  have  been 
abused  and  perverted,  ere  it  could 
have  sunk  to  be  the  standing  butt 
of  farce-writers,  and  the  theme  of 
weekly  punsters.  . 

In  this  pair  we  see  the  wonders  a 
male  and  female  can  do  for  each  oth- 
er in  the  sweet  bond  of  holy  wedlock. 
In  that  blessed  relation  alone  two  in- 
terests are  really  one,  and  two  hearts 
lie  safe  at  anchor  side  by  side. 

Christie  and  Charles  are  friends, — 
for  they  are  man  and  wife. 


Christie  and  Charles  are  lovers  still, 
—  for  they  are  man  and  wife. 

Christie  and  Charles  are  one  for- 
ever, —  for  they  are  man  and  wife. 

This  wife  brightens  the  house,  from 
kitchen  to  garret,  for  her  husband ; 
this  husband  works  like  a  king  for 
his  wife's  comfort,  and  for  his  own 
fame,  —  and  that  fame  is  his  wife's 
glory.  When  one  of  these  expresses 
or  hints  a  wish,  the  other's  first  im- 
pulse is  to  find  the  means,  not  the 
objections. 

They  share  all  troubles,  and,  by- 
sharing,  halve  them. 

They  share  all  pleasures,  and,  by 
sharing,  double  them. 

They  climb  the  hill  together  now, 
and  many  a  canty  day  they  shall  have 
with  one  another  ;  and  when,  by  the 
inevitable  law,  they  begin  to  descend 
towards  the  dark  valley,  they  will  still 
go  hand  in  hand,  smiling  so  tenderly, 
and  supporting  each  other,  with  a 
care  more  lovely  than  when  the  arm 
was  strong  and  the  foot  firm. 

On  these  two  temperate  lives  old 
age  will  descend  lightly,  gradually, 
gently,  and  late,  —  and  late  upon 
these  evergreen  hearts,  because  they 
are  not  tuned  to  some. selfish,  isolated 
key  ;  these  hearts  beat  and  ring  with 
the  young  hearts  of  their  dear  chil- 
dren, and  years  hence  papa  and  mam- 
ma will  begin  life  hopefully,  wishfully, 
warmly  again  with  each  loved  novice 
in  turn. 

And  when  old  age  does  come,  it 
will  be  no  calamity  to  these,  as  it  is  to 
you,  poor  battered  beau,  laughed  at 
by  the  fair  ninnies  who  erst  laughed 
with  you ;  to  you,  poor  follower  of  sal- 
mon," fox,  and  pheasant,  whose  joints 
are  stiffening,  whose  nerve  is  gone,  — 
whose  Golgotha  remains  ;  to  3*011, 
poor  faded  beauty,  who  have  staked 
all  upon  man's  appetite,  and  not  ac- 
cumulated goodness  or  sense  for  your 
second  course ;  to  you,  poor  drawing- 
room  wit,  whose  sarcasm  has  turned 
to  venom  and  is  turning  to  drivel. 

What  terrors  has  old  age  for  this 
happy  pair  ?  it  cannot  make  them 
ugly,"  for,  though  the  purple  light  of 


CHRISTIE  JOHNSTONS. 


183 


youth  recedes,  a  new  kind  of  tran- 
quil beauty,  the  aloe-blossom  of  many 
years  of  innocence,  comes  to,  and  sits 
like  a  dove  upon,  the  aged  faces,  where 
goodness,  sympathy,  and  intelligence 
have  harbored  together  so  long  ;  and 
where  evil  passions  have  flitted  (for 
we  are  all  human),  but  found  no  rest- 
ing-place. 

Old  age  is  no  calamity  to  them : 
it  cannot  terrify  them ;  for  ere  they 
had  been  married  a  week  the  woman 
taught  the  man,  lover  of  truth,  to 
search  for  the  highest  and  greatest 
truths  in  a  book  written  for  men's 
souls  by  the  Author  of  the  world, 
the  sea,  the  stars,  the  sun,  the  soul ; 
and  this  book,  Dei  gratia,  will,  as  the 
good  bishop  sings, 

"  Teach  them  to  lire  that  they  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  their  bed." 

It  cannot  make  them  sad,  for,  ere  it 


comes,  loved  souls  will  have  gone 
from  earth,  and  from  their  tender  bo- 
som, but  not  from  their  memories ;  and 
will  seem  to  beckon  them  now  across 
the  cold  valley  to  the  golden  land. 

It  cannot  make  them  sad,  for  on 
earth  the  happiest  must  drink  a  sor- 
rowful cup  more  than  once  in  a  long 
life,  and  so  their  brightest  hopes  will 
have  come  to  dwell  habitually  on 
things  beyond  the  grave;  and  the 
great  painter,  jam  Senex,  will  chiefly 
meditate  upon  a  richer  landscape,  and 
brighter  figures  than  human  hand  has 
ever  painted;  a  scene  whose  glories 
he  can  see  from  hence  but  by  glimpses 
and  through  a  glass  darkly  ;  the  great 
meadows  on  the  other  side  of  Jordan, 
which  are  bright  with  the  spirits  of  the 
just  that  walk  there,  and  are  warmed 
with  an  eternal  sun,  and  ring  with  the 
triumph  of  the  humble  and  the  true, 
and  the  praises  of  God  forever. 


184  CHRISTIE  JOHNSTOXE. 


NOTE. 

THIS  story  was  written  three  years  ago,  and  one  or  two  topics  in  it  are 
not  treated  exactly  as  they  would  be  if  written  by  the  same  hand  to-day. 
But  if  the  author  had  retouched  those  pages  with  his  colors  of  1853,  he 
would  (he  thinks)  have  destroyed  the  only  merit  they  have,  viz.  that  of 
containing  genuine  contemporaneous  verdicts  upon  a  cant  that  was  flourish- 
ing like  a  peony,  and  a  truth  that  was  struggling  for  bare  life,  in  the  year 
of  truth  1850. 

He  prefers  to  deal  fairly  with  the  public,  and,  with  this  explanation  and 
apology,  to  lay  at  its  feet  a  faulty  but  genuine  piece  of  work 


CLOUDS    AND    SUNSHINE. 


CLOUDS   AND   SUNSHINE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  is  the  London  Season  !  Come 
into  the  country !  It  is  hot,  and 
dusty,  and  muddy  here;  and  this 
opening  of  all  the  drains,  which  is  to 
bridle  all  the  disorders  by  and  by, 
poisons  us  dead  meanwhile,  O  Board 
of  Health  !  Come  into  the  country  ! 

In  Oxfordshire,  about  two  miles 
from  the  Thames,  and  on  the  skirts  of 
the  beech  forest  that  lies  between  Wal- 
lingford  and  Hendley,  stands  an  ir- 
regular farm-house ;  it  looks  like  two 
houses  forced  to  pass  for  one ;  for  one 
part  of  it  is  all  gables,  and  tile,  and 
chimney-corners,  and  antiquity;  the 
other  is  square,  slated,  and  of  the 
newest  cut  outside  and  in.  The 
whole  occupies  one  entire  side  of  its 
own  farm-yard,  being  separated  from 
the  straw  only  by  a  small  Rubicon  of 
gravel  and  a  green  railing ;  though 
at  its  back,  out  of  the  general  view, 
is  a  pretty  garden. 

In  this  farm-house  and  its  neigh- 
borhood the  events  of  my  humble 
story  passed,  a  very  few  years  ago. 

Mrs.  Mayfield,  proprietor  of  the 
farm,  had  built  the  new  part  of  the 
house,  for  herself,  though  she  did 
little  more  than  sleep  in  it.  In  the 
antique  part  lived  her  cousin,  old 
Farmer  Hathorn,  with  his  wife  and 
his  son  Robert.  Hathorn  was  him- 
self proprietor  of  a  little  land  two 
miles  oft',  but  farmed  Mrs.  Mayfield's 
acres  upon  some  friendly  agreement, 
which  they  contrived  to  understand, 
but  few  else  could,  least  of  all  a 
shrewd  lawyer. 


The  truth  is,  the  inmates,  like  the 
house,  were  a  little  behind  their  age  : 
they  had  no  relations  that  were  not 
contained  within  these  four  walls,  and 
the  feeling  and  tie  of  blood  was  very 
strong  between  them- all. 

The  Hathorns  had  one  son,  Rob- 
ert, a  character;  he  was  silent,  and 
passed  with  some  for  sulky ;  but  he 
was  not  sulky,  only  reserved  and 
thoughtful ;  he  was,  perhaps,  a  little 
more  devoid  of  all  levity  than  be- 
comes a  young  man.  He  had  great 
force  and  weight  of  character ;  you 
might  sec  that  in  his  brow,  and  his 
steady  manner,  free  from  flourishes. 
With  the  Hathorns  lived  Mr.  Case- 
nower,  a  retired  London  tradesman. 
This  gentleman  had  been  bought  out 
of  a  London  firm  for  his  scientific 
way  of  viewing  things  :  they  had  lost 
such  lots  of  money  by  it. 

He  had  come  to  the  Hathorns  for  a 
month,  and  had.  now  been  with  them 
a  year,  with  no  intention,  on  either 
side,  of  parting  yet  awhile.  This 
good  accord  did  not  prevent  a  perpet- 
ual strife  of  opinions  between  Case- 
nower  and  old  Hathorn.  Casenower, 
the  science-bitten,  had  read  all  the 
books  chemists  wrote  on  agriculture, 
and  permitted  himself  to  believe  ev- 
ery word.  Hathorn  read  nothing  on 
agriculture,  but  the  sheep,  the  soil, 
the  markets,  and  the  clouds,  &c.,  and 
sometimes  read  them  wrong,  but  not 
so  very  often. 

Rose  Mayfield  was  a  young  widow, 
fresh,  free,  high-spirited,  and  jovial ; 
she  was  fond  of  company,  and  its  life 
and  soul  wherever  she  was.  She  loved 


188 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


flirtation,  and  she  loved  work ;  and 
when  she  could  not  combine  them 
she  would  take  them  by  turns ;  she 
would  leave  the  farm  every  now  and 
then,  go  to  a  friend  at  Oxford,  Read- 
ing, or  Abingdon,  and  flirt  like  wild- 
fire for  a  fortnight ;  then  she  would 
return  to  the  farm,  and  men,  boys, 
horses,  and  work  would  seem  to  go 
more  lively  before  she  had  been  back 
an  hour. 

Mrs.  Mayfield  was  a  grazier. 
Though  she  abandoned  her  arable 
land  to  her  cousin's  care,  she  divided 
with  him  her  grass  acres,  and  bred 
cattle,  and  churned  butter,  and  made 
cheeses,  and  showed  a  working  arm 
bare  till  dinner-time  (one  o'clock)  six 
days  in  the  week. 

This  little  farm  house  then  held  a 
healthy,  happy  party ;  but  one  was 
not  quite  content.  Parents  are  mat- 
rimonial schemers  ;  they  cannot  help 
it ;  it 's  no  use  talking.  Old  Hathorn 
wanted  Rose  Mayfield  to  marry  his 
son  Robert,  and  so  make  all  sure. 
The  farmer  was  too  wise  to  be  always 
tormenting  the  pair  to  come  together, 
but  he  secretly  worked  towards  that 
end  whenever  he  could  without  being 
seen  through  by  them. 

Their  ages  were  much  the  same; 
and  finer  specimens  of  nistic  stature 
and  beauty  in  eiiher  sex  were  not  to 
be  seen  for  miles.  But  their  disposi- 
tions were  so  different,  that  when, 
npon  a  kind  word  or  a  civility  passing 
between  them,  old  Hathorn  used  to 
look  at  Mrs.  Hathorn,  Mrs.  Hathorn 
used  to  shake  her  head,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  Maybe,  but  I  doubt  it." 

One  thing  the  farmer  built  on  was 
this  ;  that,  though  Mrs.  Mayfield  was 
a  coquette,  none  of  her  beaux  followed 
her  to  the  farm.  "  She  won't  have 
them  here,"  argued  Hathorn,  "and 
that  shows  she  has  a  respect  for  Rob- 
ert at  bottom." 

The  good  farmer's  security  was 
shaken  by  a  little  circumstance.  Bix 
Farm,  that  lay  but  a  mile  from  our 
ground,  was  to  let,  and,  in  course  of 
time,  was  taken  by  a  stranger  from 
Berkshire.  Coming  into  a  farm  is  a 


;  business  of  several  months  ;  but  the 
new  tenant,  a  gay,  dashing  young 
I  fellow,  came  one  day  to  look  over  his 
new  farm  ;  and,  to  Hathorn'a  surprise, 
called  on  him,  and  inquired  for  Mrs. 
Mayfield.  At  sight  of  the  new-comer, 
that  lady  colored  up  to  the  eyes,  and 
introduced  him  to  her  cousin  as  Mr. 
Hickman.  The  name,  coupled  with 
her  manner,  struck  Hathorn,  but  he 
said  nothing  to  Rose.  He  asked  his 
wife  who  this  Hickman  was.  "  He  is 
a  stranger .  to  me,"  was  the  reply, 
"  ask  Rose  ;  I  hear  he  was  her  beau 
out  Abingdon  way." 

Here  was  a  new  feature.  The  good 
fanner  became  very  uneasy ;  but  coun- 
try-folks have  plenty  of  tact.  He 
said  little,  —  he  only  warned  Robert 
(who  did  not  seem  dismayed  by  the 
intelligence),  and  held  himself  on  his 
guard. 

That  same  evening  the  whole  fam- 
ily party  were  seated  together,  towards 
sundown,  in  Hathorn's  dining-room, 
—  the  farmer  smoking  a  clay  pipe, 
Mrs.  Hathorn  sewing,  Mrs.  Mayfield 
going  in  and  out,  making  business ; 
but  Robert  was  painfully  reading 
some  old  deeds  he  had  got  from  Mrs. 
Mayfield  the  week  before.  This  had 
been  the  young  man's  occupation  for 
several  evenings,  and  Mrs.  Mayfield 
'  had  shrugged  her  shoulders  at*  him 
and  his  deeds  more  than  dnce. 

On   the  present  occasion,   finding 
i  the  room  silent  and  reposeful,  a  state 
I  of  things  she  abhorred,   she   said   to 
!  Mrs.  Hathorn,  in  a  confidential  whis- 
|  per,  so  bell-like,  that  the}-  all  heard  it, 
as  she  meant  them,  "  Has  your  Rob- 
ert any  thoughts  of  turning  lawyer  at 
present  ?  " 

The  question  was  put  so  demurely, 
that  the  old  people  smiled  and  did  not 
answer,  but  looked  towards  Robert  to 
answer.  The  said  Robert  smiled,  and 
went  on  studying  the  parchment. 

"  He  does  n't  make  us  much  the 
wiser,  though;  does  he?"  continued 
Mrs.  Mayfield.  "  Silence  !  "  cried  the 
tormentor,  the  next  moment,  "he  is 
going  to  say  something.  He  is  only 
waiting  till  the  sun  goes  down." 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


189 


"  lie  is  only  waiting  till  he  has  pot 
something  to  say,"  replied  Robert,  in 
his  quiet  way. 

"  Ah  !  "  was  the  reply  ;  "  that  is  a 
trick  you  have  got.  I  say,  Jane,  if  I 
was  to  wait  for  that,  what  would 
become  of  the  house  ?  " 

"It  would  not  be  so  gay  as  it  is,  1 
dare  say,  Rose." 

"And  that  would  be  a  pity,  you 
know.  Well,  Bob,  when  do  you  look 
to  hnvc  something  to  say  ?  to-morrow 
night,  —  if  the  weather  holds  1 " 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  something 
to  say  as  soon  as  I  have  read  this 
through."  He  examined  the  last  leaf, 
—  then  laid  it  down.  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  say." 

Mrs.  Hathorn  laid  down  her  work. 

"  Cousin  Mayfield,"  said  Robert, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  Uxmoor 
Farm  ?  " 

Cousin  Mayficld,  who  had  been  all 
expectation,  burst  into  a  fit  of  laugh- 
ter that  rang  through  the  room  like  a 
little  peal  of  bells.  Mrs.  Hathorn 
looked  vexed,  and  Robert  colored  for 
a  moment ;  but  he  resumed  coolly : 
"  Why,  it  is  two  hundred  acres,  most- 
ly good  soil,  and  it  marches  with  your 
up-hill  land.  Squire  Phillips,  that 
has  just  got  it,  counts  it  the  cream  of 
his  estate." 

"  And  what  have  I  to  do  with 
Squire  Phillips  and  Uxmoor  f  " 

"  Why,  this,  Rose.  I  think  Ux- 
moor belongs  to  you." 

"  Nonsense,  —  is  the  boy  mad  1- 
Why,  Squire  Phillips  got  it  along 
with  Hurley,  and  Norton,  and  all  the 
Lydalls'  farms.  Of  course  they  are 
all  mine  by  right  of  blood,  if  every 
one  had  their  own  ;  hut  they  were  all 
willed  away  from  us  fifty  years  ago. 
Who  does  n't  know  that  ?  No  :  Squire 
Phillips  is  rooted  there  too  fast  for  us 
to  take  him  np." 

"  It  docs  not  belong  to  Squire  Phil- 
lips," was  the  cool  reply. 

"  To  whom,  then  1  " 

"  To  you,  Rose  ;  or,  if  not  to  you, 
to  father  yonder,  —  but,  unless  I  am 
much  mistaken,  it  belongs  to  you.  I 
am  no  great  discourser,"  continued 


Robert ;  "  so  I  have  written  it  down  to 
the  best  of  my  ability,  here.  I  wish 
you  would  look  at  this  paper,  and 
you  might  read  it  over  to  father  and 
mother,  if  you  will  be  so  good.  I  am 
going  my  rounds  "  ;  and  out  strolled 
Mr.  Robert,  to  see  that  every  cow 
was  foddered,  and  every  pig  had  his 
share  of  the  trough. 

Mrs.  Mayfield  took  Robert's  paper, 
and  read  what  he  had  written,  —  some 
score  of  little  dry  sentences,  each  of 
them  a  link  in  a  chain  of  fact,  —  and 
this  was  the  general  result :  Fifty 
years  ago  Mrs.  Mayficld's  father's  fa- 
ther had  broken  off  all  connection 
with  his  son,  and  driven  him  out  of 
his  house  and  disinherited  him,  .and 
adopted  in  his  stead  the  father  of 
Squire  Phillips.  The  disinherited,  be- 
ing supplied  with  money  by  his  moth- 
er, had  got  on  in  the  world,  and  con- 
soled himself  for  the  loss  of  his  father's 
farms  by  buying  one  or  two  of  his 
own.  He  died  before  his  father,  and 
bequeathed  all  he  possessed  to  his 
daughter  Rose.  At  last  the  old  fel- 
low died  at  an  immense  age,  and  under 
his  will  Squire  Philips  took  all  his  lit- 
tle estates  :  but  here  came  in  Robert's 
discovery.  Of  those  four  little  es- 
tates, one  had  come  into  the  old  fel- 
low's hands  from  his  wife's  father, 
and  through  his  wife ;  and  a  strict  set- 
tlement, drawn  so  long  ago  that  all, 
except  the  old  fellow  who  meant  to 
cheat  it,  had  forgotten  it,  secured  the 
Uxmoor  estate,  after  his  parents' 
death,  to  Rose  Mayfield's  father,  who 
by  his  will  had  unconsciously  trans- 
ferred it  to  Rose. 

This,  which  looks  clear,  had  been 
patiently  disentangled  from  a  mass 
of  idle  words  by  Robert  Hathorn,  and 
the  family  began  to  fall  gradually  into 
his  opinion.  The  result  was,  Mrs. 
Mayfield  went  to  law  with  Squire 
Phillips,  and  the  old  farmer's  hopes 
revived;  for  he  thought,  and  with 
reason,  that  all  this  must  be  another 
link  between  Robert  and  Rose ;  and 
so  the  months  glided  on.  The  fate 
of  Uxmoor  was  soon  to  be  tried  at 
the  Assizes.  Mr.  Hickman  came 


190 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


over  now  and  then,  preparatory  to  set- 
tling on  Bix.  Mrs.  Mayfiefd  made 
no  secret  that  she  found  him  "  very 
good  company,"  —  that  was  her 
phrase,  —  and  he  courted  her  openly. 
Another  month  brought  the  great 
event  of  the  agricultural  year,  "  the 
harvest."  This  part  of  Oxfordshire 
can  seldom  get  in  its  harvest  without 
the  assistance  of  some  strange  hands, 
and  Robert  agreed  with  three  Irish- 
men and  two  Hampshire  lads  the 
afternoon  before  the  wheat  harvest. 
"  With  these  and  our  own  people  we 
shall  do  well  enough,  father,"  said  he. 

Just  before  the  sun  set,  Mrs.  Ha- 
thorn  was  seated  outside  her  own 
door  with  her  work,  when  two  people 
came  through  the  farm-yard  to  speak 
to  her ;  a  young  woman  and  a  very 
old  man.  The  former  stood  a  little 
in  the  rear ;  and  the  old  man  came  up 
to  Mrs.  Hathorn,  and,  taking  off  his 
hat,  begged  for  employment  in  the 
fields. 

"  Our  number  is  made  up,  old 
man,"  was  the  answer. 

The  old  man's  head  drooped ;  hut 
he  found  courage  to  say  :  "  One  more 
or  one  less  won't  matter  much  to  you, 
and  it  is  the  bread  of  life  to  us." 

"Poor  old  man,"  said  Mrs.  Ha- 
thorn, "  you  are  too  old  for  harvest 
work,  I  doubt." 

"No  such  thing,  dame,"  said  the 
old  man,  testily. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  "  cried  Rob- 
ert from  the  barn. 

"  An  old  man  and  his  daughter 
come "  for  harvest  work.  They  beg 
hard  for  it,  Robert" 

"  Give  them  their  supper,  mother, 
and  let  them  go." 

"  I  will,  Robert ;  no  doubt  the 
poor  things  are  hungry  and  weary 
and  all  "  ;  and  she  put  down  her  work 
to  go  to  the  kitchen,  but  the  old  man 
stopped  her. 

"  We  are  here  for  work,  not  for 
charity,"  said  he;  "and  won't  take 
anything  we  don't  earn." 

Mrs.  Hathorn  looked  surprised,  and 
a  little  affronted.  The  girl  stepped 


"  No  need  to  speak  so  sharp,  grand- 
father," said  she,  in  a  clear,  cold,  but 
winning  voice ;  "  charity  is  not  so 
common.  We  thank  you,  dame.  He 
is  an  old  soldier,  and  prouder  than 
becomes  the  like  of  us.  Good  even, 
and  good  luck  to  your  harvest !  " 

They  turned  to  go. 

"  Stop,  girl !  "  said  Mrs.  Hathorn. 
"  Robert,"  cried  she,  "  I  wish  you 
would  come  here." 

Robert  put  on  his  coat,  and  came  up. 

"  It  is  an  old  soldier,  Robert ;  and 
they  seem  decent  folk,  the  pair  of 
them." 

"  An  old  soldier  !  "  said  Robert, 
looking  with  some  interest  at  the  old 
man,  who,  though  stiff  in  the  joints, 
was  very  erect 

"  Ay !  young  man,"  said  the  other, 
boldly,  "  when  I  was  your  age  I 
fought  for  the  land ;  and  now,  you 
see,  I  must  not  work  upon  it !  " 

Robert  looked  at  his  mother. 

"  Come,  Robert,"  said  she,  "  we 
may  all  live  to  be  old  if  it  pleases 
God." 

"Well,"  said  Robert,  "it  seems 
hard  to  refuse  an  old  soldier ;  but  he 
is  very  old,  and  the  young  woman 
looks  delicate ;  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know  how  to  bargain  with  them." 

"  Count  our  two  sickles  as  one, 
sir,"  said  the  girl,  calmly. 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Robert ;  "  any  way, 
we  will  give  you  a  trial  " ;  and  he  re- 
turned to  his  work.  And  Corporal 
Patrick,  for  that  was  the  old  soldier's 
name,  no  longer  refused  the  homely 
supper  that  was  offered  him,  since  he 
could  work  it  out  in  the  morning. 

The  next  morning  at  six  o'clock 
the  men  and  women  were  all  in  the 
wheat :  Robert  Hathorn  at  the  head 
of  them,  for  Robert  was  one  of  the 
best  reapers  in  the  country-side. 

Many  a  sly  jest  passed  at  the  ex- 
pense of  Patrick  and  his  grand- 
daughter Rachael.  The  old  man  of- 
ten answered,  but  Rachael  hardly 
ever.  At  the  close  of  the  day,  they 
drew  apart  from  all  the  rest,  and 
seemed  content  when  they  were  alone 
together. 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


191 


In  the  course  of  a  day  or  two,  the 
reapers  began  to  observe  that  Rachael 
was  very  handsome ;  and  then  she 
became  the  object  of  much  coarse 
admiration.  Rachael  was  as  little 
affected  by  this  as  by  their  satire. 
She  evaded  it  with  a  cold  contempt, 
which  left  little  more  to  be  said  ;  and 
then  her  rustic  admirers  took  part 
with  the  women  against  her. 

Rachael  was  pale ;  and  perhaps 
this  was  one  reason  why  her  beauty 
did  not  strike  the  eye  all  at  once ;  but, 
when  you  came  to  know  her  face,  she 
was  beautiful.  Her  long  eyelashes 
were  heavenly ;  her  eye  was  full  of 
soul ;  her  features  were  refined,  and 
her  skin  was  white  and  transparent, 
and  a  slight  blush  came  readily  to  it, 
at  which  moment  she  was  lovely.  It 
must  be  owned  she  did  not  appear  to 
advantage  in  the  field  among  the  reap- 
ers ;  for  there  she  seemed  to  feel  at 
war ;  and  her  natural  dignity  degener-  j 
ated  into  a  certain  doggedness.  After  I 
a  while  Mrs.  Hathorn  took  a  fancy  j 
to  her ;  and  when-  she  was  beside  this 
good,  motherly  creature,  her  asperity 
seemed  to  soften  down,  and  her  cold- 
ness turned  to  a  not  unamiable  pen- 
siveness. 

Mrs.  Hathorn  said  one  evening  to 
Robert :  "  Robert,  look  at  that  girl. 
Do  try  and  find  out  what  is  the  mat- 
ter with  her.  She  is  a  good  girl  as 
ever  broke  bread ;  but  she  breaks  my 
heart  to  look  at  her;  she  is  like  a 
marble  statue.  It  is  not  natural  at 
her  years  to  be  so  reserved." 

"  Oh !  "  answered  Robert,  "  let  her 
alone,  there  are  talkers  enough  in  the 
world.  She  is  a  modest  girl,  —  the 
only  one  in  the  field,  I  should  say,  — 
and  that  is  a  great  ornament  to  all 
women,  if  they  would  but  see  it." 

"  Well,  Robert,  at  all  events,  have 
your  eye  on  them ;  they  are  stran- 
gers, and  the  people  about  here  are 
vulgar  -  behaved  to  strangers,  you 
know." 

"  I  '11  take  care  ;  and,  as  for  Ra- 
chael, she  knows  how  to  answer  the 
fools,  —  I  noticed  that  the  first  day." 

Suaday  evening  came;   the  villa- 


gers formed  in  groups  about  the  ale- 
house, the  stocks,  and  the  other 
points  of  resort,  and  their  occasional 
laughter  fell  discordantly  upon  the 
ear,  so  holy  and  tranquil  seemed  the 
air  and  the  sky.  Robert  Hathorn 
strolled  out  at  the  back  of  the  house 
to  drink  the  Sabbath  sunset  after  a 
week  of  toil :  at  the  back  of  the 
largest  barn  was  a  shed,  and  from 
this  shed,  as  he  drew  near  to  it,  there 
issued  sounds  that  seemed  to  him  as 
sweetly  in  unison  with  that  holy  sun- 
set as  the  villagers'  rude  mirth  was 
out  of  tune.  He  came  to  the  back  of 
the  shed,  and  it  was  Rachael  reading 
the  Bible  aloud  to  her  grandfather. 
The  words  were  golden,  and  fell  like 
dew  upon  all  the  spirits  within  their 
reach,  —  upon  Robert,  who  listened 
to  them  unseen  ;  upon  Patrick,  whose 
testy  nature  was  calmed  and  soothed ; 
and  upon  Rachael  herself,  who  seemed 
at  this  moment  more  hopeful,  and 
less  determined  to  shrink  within  her- 
self. Her  voice,  always  sweet  and 
winning,  became  richer  and  mellower 
as  she  read  ;  and  when  she  closed  the 
book,  she  said,  with  a  modest  fervor 
one  would  hardly  have  suspected  her 
of,  "  Blessed  be  God  for  this  book, 
grandfather !  I  do  think  it  is  the 
best  thing  of  all  the  good  things  he 
has  given  the  world,  and  it  is  very 
encouraging  to  people  of  low  condi- 
tion like  us." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  "  those 
were  bold  words  you  read  just  now, 
'  Blessed  are  the  poor.'  " 

"  Let  us  take  them  to  heart,  old 
man,  since,  strange  as  they  sound, 
they  must  be  true." 

Corporal  Patrick  pondered  awhile 
in  silence,  then  said  he  was  weary : 
"  Let  us  bless  the  good  people  whose 
bread  we  have  eaten  this  while,  and 
I  will  go  to  sleep  ;  Rachael,  my  child, 
if  it  was  not  for  you,  I  could  wish  not 
to  wake  again." 

Poor  old  man,  he  was  aweary ;  he 
had  seen  better  days,  and  fourscore 
years  is  a  great  age ;  and  he  had  been 
a  soldier,  and  fought  in  great  battles 
head  erect,  and  now,  in  his  feeble  days, 


192 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


it  was  hard  to  have  .to  bow  the  back 
and  bend  over  the  sickle  among  boys 
and  girls  who  jeered  him,  and  whose 
peaceful  grandsires  he  had  defended 
against  England's  enemies. 

Corporal  Patrick  and  his  grand- 
daughter went  into  the  barn  to  sleep, 
as  heretofore,  on  the  straw.  Robert 
Hathorn  paced  thoughtfully  home, 
and  about  half  an  hour  after  this  a 
cow-boy  came  into  the  barn  to  tell  Cor- 
poral Patrick  there  were  two  truckle- 
beds  at  his  sen-ice  in  a  certain  loft, 
which  he  undertook  to  show  him.  So 
the  old  soldier  and  Rachael  bivouacked 
no  longer  in  the  barn. 

"  Who  sent  you  ?  "  said  Rachael  to 
the  boy. 

"  Mistress." 

After  this  Robert  Hathorn  paid 
considerable  attention  both  to  Patrick 
and  Rachael,  and  she  showed  by  de- 
grees that  she  was  not  quite  ice  to 
a  man  that  could  respect  her;  not 
that  her  manner  was  inviting  even  to 
him,  but  at  least  it  was  courteous, 
and  once  or  twice  she  even  smiled  on 
him,  and  a  beautiful  smile  it  was  when 
it  did  come ;  and,  whether  from  its 
beauty  or  its  rarity,  made  a  great  im- 
pression on  all  who  saw  it. 

It  was  a  fine  harvest-time,  upon  the 
whole,  and  with  some  interruptions 
the  work  went  merrily  on  ;  the  two 
strangers,  in  spite  of  hard  labor,  im- 
proved in  appearance.  Mrs.  Hathorn 
set  this  down  to  the  plentiful  and 
nourishing  meals  which  issued  twice  a 
day  from  her  kitchen ;  and,  as  they  had 
always  been  her  favorites,  she  drew 
Robert's  attention  to  the  bloom  that 
began  to  spread  over  Rachael's  cheek, 
and  the  old  soldier's  brightening 
eye,  as  her  work  in  a  great  measure. 

Mrs.  Mayficld  was  away,  and  dur- 
ing her  absence  Hickman  had  not 
come  once  to  visit  his  farm  or  Ha- 
thorn's.  This  looked  ugly. 

"  Wife,"  said  the  farmer,  one  day, 
"  what  makes  our  Robert  so  moody  of 
late  ? " 

"  O,  you  have  noticed  it,  have  you  ? 
Then  I  am  right ;  the  boy  has  some- 
thing on  his  mind." 


"  That  is  easy  to  be  seen,  and  I 
think  I  know  what  it  is." 

"  Do  you,  John  ?  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  he  sees  this  Hickman  is  in 
a  fair  wav  to  carry  off  Rose  Mav- 
field." 

"  It  is  not  that." 

"  Why,  what  else  can  it  be  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  wonder  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Hathorn,  "  that  a  man  should  n't 
know  his  own  son  better  than  you 
seem  to  know  Robert.  They  are  very 
good  friends ;  but  what  makes  you 
think  Robert  would  marry  her  ?  Have 
you  forgotten  how  strict  he  is  about 
women  ?  Why  did  he  part  with 
Lucy  Blackwoo'd,  the  only  sweetheart 
he  ever  had  ?  " 

"  Hanged  if  I  remember." 

"  Because  she  got  herself  spoken  of 

I  flirting  at  Oxford  races  once  in  a  way  ; 

and  Rose  does  mostly  nothing  else. 

And  they  do  say  that  once  or  twice 

since  her  husband  died,  ahem  !  —  " 

"  She  has  kicked  over  the  traces 
altogether  ?  Fiddlestick  !  " 

"Fiddlestick  be  it !  She  is  a  fine, 
spirity  woman,  and  such  are  apt  to 
set  folk  talking  more  than  they  can 
prove.  Well,  Robert  would  n't  many 
a  woman  that  made  folk  talk  about 
her." 

"  O,  he  is  not  such  a  fool  a<  to 
fling  the  farm  to  a  stranger.  When 
does  Rose  come  home  ?  " 

"Next  week,  as  soon  as  the  Assizes 
are  over,  and  the  Uxmoor  cause  set- 
tled one  way  or  other." 

"  Well,  when  she  comes  back,  you 
will  see  him  clear  up  directly,  and 
then  I  shall  know  what  to  do.  They 
must  come  together,  and  they  shall 
come  together ;  and,  if  there  is  no 
other  way,  I  know  one  that  will 
bring  them  together,  and  I'll  work 
that  way  if  I  'm  hanged  for  it." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Mrs. 
Hathorn,  calmly.  "  You  can  but  try." 

"  I  will  try  all  I  know." 

Will  it  be  believed,  that,  while  he 
was  in  this  state  of  uneasiness  about 
his  favorite  project,  Mr.  Casenower 
came  and  invited  him  to  a  friendly 
conference;  announced  to  him  that 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


193 


he  admired  Mrs.  Mayfield  beyond 
measure,  and  had  some  reason  to 
think  she  was  not  averse  to  him,  and 
requested  the  farmer's  co-operation  ? 

"  Confound  the  jade,"  thought  Ha- 
thorn, "  she  has  been  spreading  the 
net  for  this  one,  too,  then ;  she  will 
break  my-  heart  before  I  have  done 
with  her." 

He  answered  demurely,  "that  he 
did  not  understand  women  ;  that  his 
mind  was  just  now  in  the  harvest; 
and  he  hoped  Mr.  C.  would  excuse 
him,  and  try  his  luck  himself,  —  along 
with  the  rest,"  sard  the  old  boy,  rather 
bitterly. 

The  harvest  drew  towards  its  close ; 
the  barns  began  to  burst  with  the 
golden  crops,  and  one  fair  rick  after 
another  rose  behind  them,  like  a  rear- 
guard, until  one  fine  burning-hot  day 
in  September  there  remained  nothing 
but  a  small  barley-field  to  carry. 

In  the  house  Mrs.  Hathorn  and  the 
servants  were  busy  preparing  the 
harvest-home  dinner;  in  the  farm- 
yard, Casenower  and  old  Hathorn 
were  arguing  a  point  of  husbandry ; 
the  warm  haze  of  a  September  day 
was  over  the  fields ;  the  little  pigs 
toddled  about  contentedly  in  the  straw 
of  the  farm-yard,  rooting  here,  and 
grunting  there ;  the  pigeons  sat  upon 
the  barn  tiles  in  flocks,  and  every  now 
and  then  one  would  come  shooting 
down,  and  settle,  with  flapping  wings, 
upon  a  bit  of  straw  six  inches  higher 
than  the  level ;  and  every  now  and 
then  was  heard  the  thunder  of  the 
horses'  feet  as  they  came  over  the 
oak  floor  of  a  barn,  drawing  a  loaded 
wagon  into  it.  Suddenly  a  halloo 
was  heard  down  the  road ;  Mr.  Case- 
nower and  Hathorn  looked  over 
the  wall,  and  it  was  Mrs.  Mayfield's 
boy  Tom,  riding  home  full  pelt,  and 
hurrahing  as  he  came  along. 

"We  have  won  the  day,  farmer," 
shouted  he;  "you  may  dine  at  Ux- 
moor  if  you  like.  La  bless  you,  the 
judge  wouldn't  hear  a  word  against 
us.  .  Hurrah !  here  comes  the  mis- 
tress ;  hurrah  !  "  And,  sure  enough, 
Mrs.  Mayfield  was  seen  in  her  hat 
9 


and  habij,  riding  her  bay  mare  up  at 
a  hand-gallop  on  the  grass  by  the 
roadside.  Up  she  came ;  the  two 
men  waved  their  hats  to  her,  which 
salute  she  returned  on  the  spot,  in  the 
middle  of  a  great  shy,  which  her  mare 
made  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  but,  be- 
fore they  could  speak,  she  stopped 
their  mouths.  "  Where  is  Robert  ? 
Not  a  word  till  he  is  by.  I  have  not 
forgot  to  whom  I  owe  it."  She 
sprang  from  the  saddle,  and  gave  a 
hand  to  each  of  the  men ;  but  before 
they  could  welcome  her,  or  congratu- 
late her,  she  had  the  word  again. 
"  Why  of  course  you  are ;  you  are 
going  to  tell  me  you  have  been  as 
dull  as  ditch-water  since  I  went,  as  if 
I  did  n't  know  that ;  and  as  for  Ux- 
moor,  we  will  all  go  there  together  in 
the  afternoon,  and  I  '11  kiss  your 
Robert  then  and  there ;  and  then  he 
will  faint  away,  and  we  '11  come  home 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening.  Is  barley 
cart  done  yet1?" 

"No,  you  are  just  in  time;  they 
are  in  the  last  field." 

"  Well,  I  must  run  in  and  cuddle 
Jane,  and  help  them  on  with  the  din- 
ner a  bit." 

"  Ay,  do,  Rose ;  put  a  little  life 
into  them." 

In^about  ten  minutes  Mrs.  Mayfield 
joined  them  again ;  and  old  Hathorn, 
who  had  spent  that  period  in  a  brown 
study,  began  operations  upon  her, 
like  a  cautious  general  as  he  was. 

His  first  step  might  be  compared  to 
reconnoitring  the  ground ;  and  here, 
if  any  reader  of  mine  imagines  that 
country  people  are  simple  and  devoid 
of  art,  for  Heaven's  sake  let  him  re- 
sign that  notion,  which  is  entirely 
founded  on  pastorals  written  in  met- 
ropolitan garrets. 

Country  people  look  simple ;  but 
that  is  a  part  of  their  profound  art. 
They  are  the  square-nosed  sharks  of 
terra  firma.  Their  craft  is  smooth, 
plausible,  and  unfathomable.  You 
don't  believe  me,  perhaps.  Well, 
then,  my  sharp  cockney,  go,  live,  and 
do  business  in  the  country,  and  tell 
me  at  the  year's  end  whether  you 
11 


194 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


have  not  found  luimble  unknown 
Practitioners  of  Humbug,  Flattery. 
Overreaching,  and  Manoeuvre,  to 
whom  thieves  in  London  might  go  to 
school. 

We  hear  much,  from  such  as  write 
with  the  but-end  of  their  grandfather's 
flageolet,  about  simple  swains  and 
downy  meads ;  but,  when  you  get 
there,  you  find  the  natives  are  at 
least  as  downy  as  any  part  of  the 
concern. 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  home 
to-day,  Rose." 

"  Did  you  ?     Why  1 " 

"Because  Richard  Hickman  has 
been  here  twice  this  morning." 

"  Richard  Hickman!  what  was  his 
business  here  ?  " 

"  Well,  they  do  say  you  and  he  are 
to  go  to  church  together  one  of  these 
days,  —  the  pair  of  you." 

"  Well,  if  the  pair  of  us  go  to 
church,  there  will  be  a  pair  of  wed- 
dings that  day." 

"  How  smooth  a  lie  do  come  off  a 
woman's  tongue,  to  be  sure  ! "  thought 
Mr.  Hathorn. 

Mr.  Casenower  put  in  his  word. 
"  1  trust  I  shall  not  offend  you  by  my 
zeal,  madam,  but  I  hope  to  see  you 
married  to  a  better  man  than  Hick- 
man." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Mr.  Cas — 
hem !  You  find  me  a  better  man, 
and  I  won't  make  two  bites  at  him, 

—  ha !  ha !  ha !  " 

"  He  bears  an  indifferent  character, 

—  ask  the  farmer  here." 

"  O,"  said  the  farmer,  with  an  os- 
tentation of  candor,  "  I  don't  believe 
all  I  hear." 

"  I  don't  believe  half,  nor  a  quar- 
ter," said  Mrs.  Mayfield  ;  "  but,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  fancy  I  am 
wrapped  up  in  Richard  Hickman,  or 
in  any  other  man  ;  but  he  is  as  good 
company  as  here  and  there  one,  and 
he  has  a  tidy  farm  nigh  hand,  and 
good  land  of  his  own  out  Newbury 
way  by  all  acconnrs." 

"  Good  lard,"  shouted  the  fanner; 
"  did  you  ever  see  it  ?  " 

"NotL" 


"  Rose,"  said  Hathorn,  solemnly 
(he  had  never  seen  it  either),  "  it  is 
as  poor  as  death  !  covered  with  those 
long  docks,  I  hear,  and  that  is  a  sure 
sign  of  land  with  no  heart  in  it,  just 
as  a  thistle  is  a  good  sign.  Do  your 
books  tell  you  that  ? "  said  he,  sud- 
denly turning  to  Casenower. 

"  No,"  said  that  gentleman,  with 
incredulous  contempt. 

"And  it  is  badly  fanned  ;  no  won- 
der, when  the  farmer  never  goes  nigh 
it  himself,  mists  all  to  a  sort  of  bailiff. 
Mind  your  eye,  Rose,  Why  does  he 
never  go  there  ?  tell  me  that." 

"  Well,  you  know,  of  course ;  he 
tells  me  he  left  it  out  of  regard  for 
me." 

"  Haw  !  haw  !  haw  !  why,  he  has 
known  you  but  six  months,  and  he 
has  not  lived  at  home  this  five  years. 
What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  Case- 
nower ?  Mind  your  eye,  Rose." 

"  I  mean  to,"  said  Rose ;  and  if 
you  had  seen  the  world  of  suppressed 
fun  and  peeping  observation  in  the 
said  eye,  you  would  have  felt  how 
capable  it  was  of  minding  itself,  and 
of  piercing  like  a  gimlet  even  through 
a  rustic  Machiavel. 

Mr.  Casenower  whispered  to  Ha- 
thorn, "  Put  in  a  word  for  me."  He 
then  marched  up  to  Rose,  and,  taking 
her  hand,  said,  with  a  sepulchral  ten- 
derness, at  which  Rose's  eye  literally 
danced  in  her  head  :  "  Knov.-  your 
own  value,  dear  Mrs.  Mayfield,  and 
do  not  throw  yourself  away  on  an  un- 
worthy object."  He  then  gave  Ha- 
thorn a  slight  wink  and  disappeared, 
leaving  his  cause  in  that  simple  rus- 
tic's hands. 

"  It  is  all  very  fine,  but  if  I  am  to 
wait  for  a  man  without  a  fault,  I  shall 
die  an  old  —  fool." 

"  That  is  not  to  be  thought  of," 
said  Hathorn,  smoothly ;  "  but  what 
you  want  is  a  fine,  steady  young  man, 
—  like  my  Robert,  now —  " 

"  So  you  have  told  me  once  or  twice 
of  late,"  said  the  larly,  archly.  "  Rob- 
ert is  a  good  lad,  and  pleases  my  eye 
well  enough,  for  that  in  itter  ;  but  he 
has  a  fault  that  wouldn't  suit  me, 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


195 


nor  any  -woman,  I  should  think,  with- 
out she  was  a  fool." 

"  Why,  what  is  wrong  about  the 
hoy  ? " 

"  The  boy  looks  sharper  after 
women  than  women  will  bear.  He 
reads  everything  we  do  with  magni- 
fying -  glasses,  and  I  like  fun,  always 
did,  and  always  shall ;  and  then  he 
would  be  jealous,  —  and  then  I 
should  leave  him  the  house  to  him- 
self, that  is  all." 

"  No,  no !  you  would  break  him 
into  common  sense." 

"  More  likely  he  would  make  a 
slave  of  me ;  and,  if  I  am  to  ba  one, 
let  me  gild  the  chain  a  bit,  as  the  say- 
ing is." 

"  Now,  Rose,"  said  the  tactician, 
"  you  know  very  well  a  woman  can 
turn  a  man  round  her  finger  if  he 
.loves  her." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that ;  but  Rob- 
ert does  not  happen  to  love  me." 

"  Does  n't  love  you !  Ay,  but  he 
does  ! " 

"  What  makes  you  think  that?  " 

"0,  if  you  arc  blind,  I  am  not. 
He  tries  to  hide  it,  because  you  are 
rich,  and  he  is  poor  and  proud." 

"  O  fie  !  don't  talk  nonsense.  What 
signifies  who  has  the  money  f  " 

"  The  way  I  first  found  it  out  is, 
whin  they  speak  of  your  marrying 
that  Hickman,  he  trembles  all  over 
like.  Here  comes  his  mother ;  you 
ask  her,"  added  the  audacious 
schemer.  < 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  Mrs.  Mayfield ; 
"  none  of  your  nonsense  before  her,  if 
you  please  "  ;  and  she  ran  off,  with  a 
heightened  color. 

"  I  shall  win  the  day,"  cried  Ha- 
thorn  to  his  wife.  "  I  have  made  her 
believe  Robert  loves  her,  and  now  I  '11 
tell  him  she  dotes  on  him.  Why, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you1?  You 
seem  put  out.  What  ails  jrou  ?  " 

"  I  have  just  seen  Robert,  and  I 
don't  like  his  looks.  He  is  like  a 
man  in  a  dream  this  morning,  — 
worse  than  ever." 

"  Why,  what  can  be  the  matter 
with  him  ?  " 


"  If  I  was  to  tell  you  my  thought, 
it  would  n't  please  you,  —  and,  after 
all,  I  may  be  wrong.  Hush !  here 
he  is.  Take  no  notice,  for  Heaven's 
sake." 

At  this  moment  the  object  of  his 
father's  schemes  and  his  mother's 
anxiety  sauntered  up  to  them,  with 
his  coat  tied  round  his  neck  by  the 
arms,  and  a  pitchfork  over  his  shoul- 
der. "  Father,"  said  he,  "  you  may 
tap  the  barrel ;  .the  last  wagon  is  coin- 
ing up  the  lane." 

"  Ay,"  was  the  answer ;  "  and  you 
go  and  offer  your  arm  to  Rose,  —  she 
is  come  home,  —  and  ask  her  to  dance 
with  you." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  humor  to  galli- 
vant," was  the  languid  answer.  "  I 
leave  that  to  you,  father." 

"  To  me,  —  at  my  time  of  life !  Is 
that  the  way  to  talk  at  eight-and- 
twenty  ?  And  Rose  Mayfield,  —  the 
rose-tree  in  full  blossom !  " 

"  Yes ;  but  too  many  have  been 
smelling  at  the  blossom  for  me  ever 
to  plant  the  tree  in  my  garden." 

"  What  does  the  boy  mean  1  " 

"  To  save  time  and  words,  father  ; 
because  you  have  been  at  me  about 
her  once  or  twice  of  late." 

"  What !  is  it  because  she  likes 
dancing  and  diversion  at  odd  times  ? 
Is  that  got  to  be  a  crime,  Parson 
Bob  1  " 

"  No !  but  I  won't  have  a  wife  I 
could  n't  trust  at  those  pastimes,"  was 
the  resolute  answer. 

"  O,  if  you  are  one  of  the  jealous- 
minded  ones,  don't  you  marry  any 
one,  my  poor  chap !  " 

"  Father,  there  are  the  strange 
reapers  to  pay.  Shall  I  settle  with 
them  for  you  ?  "  said  Robert,  quietly. 

"  No  !  Let  them  come  here ;  I  11 
pay  them,"  answered  Hathorn,  senior, 
rather  sullenly. 

If  you  want  to  be  crossed,  and 
thwarted,  and  vexed,  set  your  heart, 
not  on  a  thing  you  can  do  yourself, 
but  on  something  somebody  else  is  to 
do :  if  you  want  to  be  tormented  to 
death,  let  the  wish  of  your  heart  de- 
pend upon  two  people,  a  man  and  a 


19G 


CLOUDS  AND  SUXSHIXE. 


woman,  neither  of  them  yourself. 
Now  do  try  this  recipe ;  you  will  find 
it  an  excellent  one. 

Old  Hathorn,  seated  outside  his 
own  door,  with  a  table  and  money- 
bags before  him,  paid  the  Irishmen 
and  the  Hampshire  lads,  and  invited 
each  man  to  the  harvest-home  dinner. 
He  was  about  to  rise  and  put  up 
his  money-bags,  when  Mrs  Hathorn 
cried  to  him  from  the  house,  "  Here 
are  two  more  that  have  not  been 
paid  "  ;  and  the  next  minute  old  Pat- 
rick and  Rachael  issued  from  the 
house,  and  came  in  front  of  the  table. 
Robert,  who  was  going  in  to  dress, 
turned  round  and  leaned  against  the 
corner  of  the  house,  with  his  eyes 
upon  the  ground.  "Let  me  see," 
said  Hathorn,  "  what  are  you  to 
have  ?  " 

"  Count  yourself,"  replied  Patrick  ; 
"  you  know  what  you  give  the  oth- 
ers." 

"  What  I  give  the  others !  but  you 
can't  have  done  the  work  —  " 

"  Not  of  two ;  no,  we  don't  ask  the 
wages  of  two." 

"  Of  course  you  don't." 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  Robert's 
face  at  this  discussion,  but  he  re- 
mained with  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground. 

"  Where 's  the  dispute,"  said  the 
old  soldier,  angrily ;  "  here  are  two 
that  ask  the  wages  of  one;  is  that 
hard  upon  you  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  dispute,  old  man," 
said  Robert,  steadily.  "  Father,  twen- 
ty-five times  five  shilling  is  six  pounds 
five ;  that  is  what  you  owe  them." 

"  Six  pound  five  for  a  man  of  that 
age?" 

"And  my  daughter ;  is  she  to  go 
for  nothing  ?  " 

"  Your  daughter,  your  daughter ; 
she  is  not  strong  enough  to  do  much, 
I  'in  sure." 

Racliael  colored  :  her  clear,  con- 
vincing voice  fell  upon  the  disputants. 
"  We  agreed  with  Master  Robert  to 
keep  a  ridge  between  us,  and  we  have 
done  it  as  well  as  the  best  reaper. 
Pay  us  as  one  good  reaper  then." 


"  That 's  fair  !  that  is  fair  !  If  you 
agreed  with  my  son,  a  bargain  is  a 
bargain ;  but,  for  all  that,  one  good 
arm  is  better  than  two  weak  ones, 
and  —  " 

This  tirade  received  an  unexpected 
interruption.  Robert  walked  up  to 
the  table,  without  lifting  his  eyes  from 
the  ground,  and  said  :  "  I  ask  your 
pardon,  father ;  your  bad  leg  has  kept 
you  at  home  this  harvest ;  but  I 
reaped  at  the  head  of  the  band,  and  I 
assure  you  the  young  woman  did  a 
man's  share ;  and  every  now  and  then 
the  old  man  took  her  place  ;  and  so, 
resting  by  turns,  they  kept  ahead  of 
the  best  sickle  there.  And  therefore  I 
say,"  continued  Robert,  raising  his 
eyes  timidly,  "  on  account  of  their 
poverty,  their  weary  limbs,  and  their 
stout  heart  for  work,  you  cannot  pay 
them  less  than  one  good  reaper." 

"  What  is  it,  Robert  1  "  said  Mrs. 
Hathorn,  who  had  come  out  to  see 
the  meaning  of  all  this. 

"  But  if  he  would  be  juster  still, 
mother,  like  him  that  measures  his 
succor  to  the  need,  he  would  pay  them 
as  one  and  a  half.  I  've  said  it." 

Hathorn  stared  with  ludicrous  won- 
der. "  And  why  not  as  two  ?  Are 
you  mad,  Robert  ?  taking  their  part 
against  me  1 " 

"  Enough  said,"  answered  Patrick, 
with  spirit.  "  Thank  you,  Master 
Robert,  but  that  would  be  an  alms, 
and  we  take  but  our  due.  Pay  ouc. 
two  sickles  as  one,  and  let  us  go." 

"  You  see,  father,"  cried  Robert, 
"these  are  decent  people;  and,  if  you 
had  seen  how  they  wrought,  your 
heart  would  melt  as  mine  does.  O 
mother  !  it  makes  me  ill  to  think  there 
arc  poor  Christians  in  the  world  so 
badly  off  they  must  bow  to  work  be- 
yond their  age  and  strength  to  bear. 
Take  a  thought,  father.  A  man 
that  might  be  your  father,  —  a  man 
of  fourscore  years,  —  and  a  delicate 
woman,  —  to  reap,  the  hardest  of  all 
country  work,  from  dawn  till  sun- 
down, under  this  scorching  sun  and 
wind,  that  has  dried  my  throat  and 
burnt  my  eyes,  —  let  alone  theirs.  It 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


197 


is  hard,  father ;  and,  if  you  have  a  feel- 
ing heart,  you  can't  show  it  better 
than  here." 

"  There  !  there  !  "  cried  the  farmer, 
"say  no  more;  it  is  all  right.  (You 
have  made  the  girl  cry,  Bob.)  Rob- 
ert does  n't  often  speak,  dame,  so  we 
are  bound  to  listen  when  he  does. 
There  is  the  money.  I  never  heard 
that  chap  say  so  many  words  be- 
fore." 

"We  thank  you  all,"  said  Patrick; 
"  my  blessing  be  on  your  grain,  good 
folks ;  and  that  won't  hurt  you  from 
a  man  of  fourscore." 

"  That  it  will  not,  Daddy  Patrick," 
said  Mrs.  Hathorn.  "  You  will  stay 
for  harvest-home,  both  of  you  ?  Ra- 
chiicl,  if  you  have  a  mind  to  help  me, 
wash  some  of  the  dishes." 

"  Ay  !  "  cried  the  farmer  :  "  and  it 
is  time  you  were  dressed,  Bob."  And 
so  the  party  separated. 

A  few  minutes  later  Rachael  came 
to  the  well,  and  began  to  draw  a 
bucket  of  water.  This  well  worked 
in  the  following  manner.  A  chain 
and  rope  were  passed  over  a  cylinder, 
and  two  buckets  were  attached  to  the 
several  ends  of  the  rope,  so  that  the 
empty  bucket  descending  helped  in 
some  slight  degree  the  full  bucket  to 
mount.  This  cylinder  was  turned 
by  an  iron  handle.  The  well  was  a 
hundred  feet  deep.  Rachael  drew  the 
bucket  up  easily  enough  until  the 
last  thirty  feet ;  and  then  she  found 
it  hard  work.  She  had  both  hands 
on  the  iron  handle,  and  was  panting 
a  little,  like  a  tender  fawn,  when  a 
deep  but  gentle  voice  said  in  her  ear : 
"  Let  go,  Rachael "  ;  and  the  handle 
was  taken  out  of  her  hand  by  Robert 
Hathorn. 

"  Never  mind  me,  Master  Robert," 
said  Rachael,  giving  way  reluctantly. 

"  Always  at  some  hard  work  or 
other,"  said  he ;  "  you  will  not  be 
easy  till  you  kill  yourself."  And 
with  this  he  whirled  the  handle  round 
like  lightning  with  one  hand,  and  the 
bucket  came  up  in  a  few  moments. 
He  then  filled  the  pitcher  for  her, 
which  she  took  up,  and  was  about  to 


go  into  the  house  with  it.  "  Stay  one 
minute,  Rachael." 

"  Yes,  Master  Robert." 

"  How  old  are  you,  Rachael  ?  " 
Robert  blushed  after  he  had  put  this 
question ;  but  he  was  obliged  to  say 
something,  and  he  did  not  well  know 
how  to  begin. 

"  Twenty-two,"  was  Raphael's  an- 
swer. 

"  Don't  go  just  yet.  Is  this  your 
first  year's  reaping  ?  " 

"  No,  the  third." 

"  You  must  be  very  poor,  I  am 
afraid." 

"  Very  poor  indeed,  Master  Rob- 
ert." 

"  Do  you  live  far  from  here  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  remember  I  told  you 
I  came  twenty  miles  from  here  ? " 

"  Why,  Newbury  is  about  that  dis- 
tance." 

"  I  think  your  mother  will  want 
me." 

"Well,,  don't  let  me  keep  you 
against  your  will."  » 

Rachael  entered  the  Hathorns' 
side. 

Robert's  heart  sank.  She  was  so 
gentle,  yet  so  cold  and  sad.  There 
was  no  winning  her  confidence,  it  ap- 
peared. Presently  she  returned  with 
an  empty  basket,  to  fetch  the  linen 
from  Mrs.  Mayfield's  side.  As  she 
passed  Robert,  who,  in  despair,  had 
determined  not  to  try  any  more,  but 
who  looked  up  sorrowfully  in  her 
face,  she  gave  him  a  smile,  a  very 
faint  one,  but  still  it  did  express  some 
slight  recognition  and  thanks.  His 
resolve  melted  at  this  one  little  ray  of 
kindly  feeling. 

"  Rachael,"  said  he,  "  have  you  any 
relations  your  way  ?  " 

"  Not  now  !  "  and  Rachael  was  a 
beautiful  statue  again. 

"  But  you  have  neighbors  who  are 
good  to  you  1 " 

"  We  ask  nothing  of  them." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  if  you 
could  both  live  near  us  1 " 

"  I  think  not." 

"  Why  ?  my  mother  has  a  good 
heart." 


198 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


"  Indeed  she  has." 

"  And  Mrs.  Muyficld  is  not  a  bad 
one  either." 

"  I  hear  her  well  spoken  of." 

"  And  yet  you  mean  to  live  on,  so 
far  away  from  all  of  us  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  I  must  go  for  the  linen." 
She  waited  a  moment  as  it  were  for 
permission  to  leave  him,  and,  nothing 
more  being  said,  she  entered  Mrs. 
Mayfield's  side. 

Robert  leaned  his  head  sorrowful- 
ly on  the  rails,  and  fell  into  a  revery. 

"I  am  nothing  to  her,"  thought 
he ;  "  her  heart  is  far  away.  How 
good,  and  patient,  and  mode'st  she  is, 
but  O,  how  cold !  She  turns  my 
heart  to  stone.  I  am  a  fool ;  she  has 
some  one  in  her  own  country  to 
whom  she  is  as  warm,  perhaps,  as 
she  is  cold  to  us  strangers,  —  is  that 
a  fault  1  She  is  too  beautiful,  and 
too  good,  not  to  be  esteemed  by  oth- 
ers besides  me.  Ah  !  her  path  is  one 
way,  mine  another,  —  worse  luck,  — 
would  to  God  she  had  never  come 
here !  Well,  may  she  be  happy  ! 
She  can't  hinder  me  from  praying  she 
may  be  happy,  happier  than  she  is 
now.^  Poor  Rachael  !  " 

A  "merry  but  somewhat  vulgar 
voice  broke  incredibly  harsh  and  loud, 
as  it  seemed,  upon  young  Hathorn's 
revery. 

"  Good  day,  Master  Robert." 

Robert  looked  up,  and  there  stood 
a  young  farmer  in  shooting-jacket 
and  gaiters,  with  a  riding- whip  in  his 
hand. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Hickman." 

"  The  mistress  is  come  home,  I 
hear,  and  it  is  your  harvest-home  to- 
day, so  I  '11  stop  here,  for  I  am  tired, 
and  so  is  my  horse,  for  that  matter." 
Mr.  Hickman  wasted  the  latter  part 
of  this  discourse  on  vacancy,  for 
young  Hathorn  went  coolly  away 
without  taking  any  further  notice  of 
him. 

"I  call  that  the  cold  shoulder," 
thought  Hickman ;  "  but  it  is  no 
wonder ;  that  chap  wants  to  marry 
her  himself,  of  course  he  does.  Not 
if  I  know  it,  Bob  Hathorn." 


|  It  was  natural  that  Hickman,  whose 
great  object  just  now  was  Rose  May- 
Held,  should  put  this  reading  on  Rob- 
ert's coldness  :  but  in  point  of  fact  it 
was  not  so ;  the  young  man  had  no 
feeling  towards  Hickman  but  the 
quiet  repugnance  of'a  deep  to  a  shallow 
soul,  of  a  quiet  and  thoughtful  to  a 
rattling  fellow.  Only  just  now  gny- 
ety  was  not  in  his  heart,  and  as  Hick- 
man was  generally  gay,  and  always 
sonorous,  he  escaped  to  his  own 
thoughts.  Hickman  watched  his  re- 
treat, with  an  eye  that  said.  "  You 
are  my  rival,  but  not  one  I  fear ;  I 
can  outwit  you."  And  it  was  with  a 
smile  of  triumphant  conscious  superi- 
ority that  Richard  Hickman  turned 
round  to  go  into  Mrs.  Mayfield's 
house,  and  found  himself  face  "to  face 
with  Rachael,  who  was  just  coming 
out  of  it  with  the  basket  full  of  linen 
in  her  hnnd.  Words  cannot  paint 
the  faces  of  this  woman  and  this  man, 
when  they  saw  one  another.  They 
both  started,  and  were  red  and  white 
by  turns,  and  their  eyes  glared  upon 
one  another ;  yet,  though  the  sur- 
prise was  equal,  the  emotion  was  not 
quite  the  same.  The  woman  stood, 
her  bosom  heaving  slowly  and  high, 
her  eye  dilating,  her  lips  apart,  her 
elastic  figure  rising  higher  and  higher. 
She  stood  there,  wild  as  a  startled 
panther,  uncertain  whether  to  fight  or 
to  fly.  The  man,  after  the  first  start, 
seemed  to  cower  under  her  eye,  and 
half  a  dozen  expressions  that  chased 
one  another  across  his  face  left  one 
fixed  there,  —  Fear  !  abject  fear  ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

THEY  eyed  one  another  in  silence : 
at  last  Hickman  looked  down  upon 
the  ground  and  said,  in  faltering,  ill- 
assured  tones,  "H — how  d'ye  do, 
Rachael  ?  I  —  I  did  n't  expect'to  see 
you  here." 

"Nor  I  you." 

"  If  you  are  busy,  don't  let  me  stop 
you,  you  know,"  said  Hickman,  awk- 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


19D 


wardly  and  confused,  and,  like  one 
with  no  great  resources,  compelled  to 
utter  something. 

Then  Raclwel,  white  as  a  sheet, 
took  up  her  basket  again,  and  moved 
away  in  silence !  The  young  farmer 
eyed  her  apprehensively,  and,  being 
clearly  under  the  influence  of  some 
misgiving  as  to  her  intentions,  said : 
"  If  you  blow  me,  it  will  do  me  harm 
and  you  no  good,  you  know,  Rachael. 
Can't  we  be  friends  ?  " 

"  Friends !  —  you  and  I  ? " 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  —  let  us 
talk  it  over.  1  am  a  little  better  off 
than  I  used  to  be  in  those  days." 

"  What  is  that  to  me  V 

"  Plenty  ;  if  you  won't  be  spiteful, 
and  set  others  against  me  in  this 
part "  :  by  "  others,"  doubtless  Hick- 
man  intended  Mrs.  Mayficld. 

"  I  shall  neither  speak  nor  think  of 
you,"  was  the  cold  answer. 

Had  Richard  Hickman  been  capa- 
ble of  fathoming  Rachael  Wright,  or 
even  of  reading  her  present  marble 
look  and  tone  aright,  he  would  have 
seen  that  he  had  little  to  apprehend 
from  her  beyond  contempt,  a  thing  he 
would  not  in  the  least  have  minded ; 
but  he  was  cunning,  and,  like  the  cun- 
ning, shallowish ;  so  he  pursued  his 
purpose,  feeling  his  way  with  her  to 
the  best  of  his  ability. 

"  I  have  had  a  smart  bit  of  money 
left  me  lately,  Rachael." 

"  What  is  that  to  me  1 " 

"  What  is  it  ?  why,  a  good  deal, 
because  I  could  assist  you  now,  may- 
be." 

"  And  what  right  have  you  to  assist 
me  now  1 " 

"  Confound  it,  Rachael,  how  proud 
you  are !  —  why,  you  are  not  the  same 
girl.  0, 1  see  !  as  for  assisting  you, 
I  know  you  would  rather  work  than 
be  in  debt  to  any  one ;  but  then  there 
is  another  besides  you,  you  know." 

"  What  other  ?  "  said  Rachael,  los- 
ing her  impassibility,  and  trembling 
all  over  at  this  simple  word. 

"  What  other  f  "  why,  confound  it, 
who  ever  saw  a  girl  fence  like  this  ? 
I  suppose  you  think  I  am  not  man 


enough  to  do  what 's  right ;  I  am, 
though,  now  I  have  got  the  means." 

"  To  do  what  ?  " 

"Why,  to  do  my  duty  by  him,  —  to 
provide  for  him." 

"  For  whom  ?  "  cried  Rachael,  wild- 
ly, "WHEN  HE  is  DEAD!" 

"  Dead  1  " 

"  Dead ! " 

"  Don't  say  so,  Rachael ;  don't  say 
so." 

"  He  is  dead !  " 

"  Dead !  I  never  thought  I  should 
have  cared  much  ;  but  that  word  do 
seem  to  knock  against  my  heart.  I  'd 
give  a  hundred  pounds  to  any  one 
would  tell  me  it  is  not  true,  —  poor 
thing  !  I  've  been  to  blame ;  I  've  been 
to  blame." 

"  You  were  not  near  us  when  he 
came  into  the  world;  you  were  not 
near  us  when  he  went  out  of  it.  He 
lived  in  poverty,  with  me  ;  he  died  in 
poverty,  for  all  I  could  do,  and  it  is 
against  my  will  if  I  did  not  die  with 
him.  Our  life  or  our  death  gave  you 
no  cares.  While  he  lived,  you  re- 
ceived a  letter  every  six  months  from 
me,  claiming  my  rights  as  your  wife." 

Hickman  nodded  assent. 

"  Last  year  you  had  no  letter." 

"No  more  there  was." 

"  And  did  not  that  tell  you  ?  Poor 
Rachael  had  lost  her  consolation  and 
her  hope,  and  had  no  more  need  of 
anything ! " 

"  Poor  Rachael ! "  cried  the  man, 
stung  with  sudden  remorse.  "  Curse 
it  all !  Curse  you,  Dick  Hickman  ! " 
Then,  suddenly  recovering  his  true 
nature,  and,  like  us  men,  never  at  a 
loss  for  an  excuse  against  a  woman, 
he  said,  angrily  :  "  What  is  the  use  of 
letters? — why  did  n't  you  come  and 
tell  me  you  were  so  badly  off?  " 

"  Me  come  after  you !  The  wrong- 
doer ? " 

"  0,  confound  your  pride  !  Should 
have  sent  the  o'd  man  to  me,  then." 

"My  grandfather,  an  old  soldier  as 
proud  as  fire !  Sent  him  to  the  man 
who  robbed  mC  of  my  good  name  by 
cheating  the  law !  You  are  a  fool ! 
Three  times  he  left  our  house  with 


200 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


his  musket  loaded  to  kill  yon,  —  three 
times  I  got  him  home  again  ;  but 
how?  —  by  prayers,  and  tears,  and" 
force,  all  three,  or  you  would  not  be 
here  in  life." 

"  The  Devil !  what  an  old  Tartar ! 
I  say,  is  he  here  alone  with  you  1  " 

"  O,  you  need  not  fear,"  said  Ra- 
chael,  with  a  faint  expression  of  scorn, 
"  he  is  going  directly,  and  I  am  going 
too  ;  -and  when  I  do  go  from  here,  I 
shall  have  lost  all  the  little  pleasure 
and  hope  I  have  in  the  world,"  said 
Rachael,  sorrowfully ;  and,  as  she  said 
this,  she  became  unconscious  of  Hick- 
man's  presence,  and  moved  away  with- 
out looking  at  him  ;  but  that  prudent 
person  dared  not  part  with  her  so.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  who  say,  "  I 
know  the  women,"  and,  in  his  sagaci- 
ty, he  dreaded  this  woman's  tongue. 
He  determined,  therefore,  to  stop  her 
tongue,  and  not  to  risk  Rose  Mayfield 
and  thousands  for  a  few  pounds. 

"Now,  Rachael,  listen  to  me. 
Since  the  poor  child  is  dead,  there  is 
only  you  to  think  of.  We  can  do 
one  another  good  or  harm,  you  and 
I ;  better  good  than  harm,  I  say. 
Suppose  I  offered  you  twenty  pounds, 
now,  to  keep  dark  ?  " 

"  You  poor  creature  !  " 

"  Well,  thirty,  then  ?  " 

"  O,  hold  your  tongue,  —  you  make 
me  ashamed  of  myself  as  well  as  you." 

"  I  see  what  it  is,  you  want  too 
much  ;  you  want  me  to  be  your  hus- 
band." 

"  No ;  while  my  child  lived,  I 
claimed  my  right  for  his  sake :  but 
not  now,  not  now";  and  the  poor 
girl  suddenly  turned  her  eyes  on  Hick- 
man,  with  an  indescribable  shudder, 
that  a  woman  would  have  interpreted 
to  the  letter ;  but  no  man  could  be  ex- 
pected to  read  it  quite  aright,  so  many 
things  it  said. 

Hickman  the  sagacious  chose  to 
understand  by  it  pique  and  personal 
hostility  to  mm,  and  desire  of  ven- 
geance ;  and,  having  failed  to  bribe 
her,  he  now  resolved  t<5  try  and  out- 
face her. 

It  so  happened  that  at  this  very 


moment  merry  voices  began  to  sound 
on  every  side.  The  clatter  was  heard 
of  tables  being  brought  out  of  the 
kitchen,  and  the  harvest-home  people 
were  seen  coming  towards  the  place 
where  Rachael  and  Hickman  were ; 
so  Hickman  said,  hastily,  "  Any  way, 
don't  think  to  blow  me,  —  for,  if  you 
do,  I  '11  swear  you  out,  my  lass,  I  '11 
swear  you  out." 

"  No  doubt  you  know  how  to  lie," 
was  the  cold  reply. 

"  There,  Rachael,"  cried  Hickman, 
piteously,  lowering  his  tone  of  defi- 
ance in  a  moment,  "  don't  expose  me 
before  the  folk,  whatever  you  do. 
Here  they  all  come,  confound  them  !  " 

Rachael  made  no  answer.  She 
retired  into  the  Hathorns'  house,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  the  tables  were  set, 
just  outside  the  house,  and  loaded 
with  good  cheer,  and  the  rustics  began 
to  ply  knife  and  fork  as  zealously  as 
they  had  sickle,  and  rake,  and  pitch- 
fork ;  and  so,  on  the  very  spot  of  earth 
where  Rachael  had  told  Hickman  her 
child  was  dead,  and  with  him  her 
heart,  scarce  five  minutes  afterwards 
came  the  rattle  of  knives  and  forks, 
and  peals  of  boisterous  laughter  and 
huge  feeding.  And  thus  it  happens 
to  many  a  small  locality  in  this  world, 
—  tragedy,  comedy,  and  farce  are  act- 
ed on  it  by  turns,  and  all  of  them  in 
earnest.  So  harvest  -  home  dinner 
proceeded  with  great  zeal ;  and  after 
the  solids  the  best  ale  was  served 
round  ad  libitum,  and  intoxication, 
sanctified  by  immemorial  usage,  fol- 
lowed in  due  course.  However,  as 
this  symptom  of  harvest  was  a  long 
time  coming  on  upon  the  present  oc- 
casion, owing  to  peculiar  interrup- 
tions, the  reader  will  not  have  to  follow 
ns  so  far,  which  let  us  hope  he  will 
not  regret. 

Few  words  worthy  of  being  em- 
balmed in  an  immortal  story,  warrant- 
ed to  live  a  month,  were  uttered  dur- 
ing the  discussion  of  the  meats,  for 
when  the  fniges  cansumere  nati  are  let 
loose  upon  beef,  bacon,  and  pudding, 
among  the  results  dialogue  on  a  large 
scale  is  not 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


201 


"  Yet  shall  the  Muse  "  embalm  a 
conversation  that  passed  on  this  oc- 
casion between  the  brothers  Messen- 
ger, laborers  aged  about  fifty,  who  had 
been  on  this  farm  nearly  all  their 
lives. 

Bob  Messenger  was  carving  a  loin 
of  veal.  Jem  Messenger  sat  opposite 
him,  eating  bacon  and  beans  on  a 
very  large  scale. 

Bob  (aiming  at  extraordinary  po- 
liteness). "Wool  you  have  some  veal 
along  with  your  bacon,  Jem  ?  " 

Jem.  "  That  I  wool  not,  Bob  " 
(with  a  reproachful  air,  as  one  whom 
a  brother  had  sought  to  entrap); 
'  When  the  table  was  cleared  of  the 
viands,  the  ale-mugs  and  horns  were 
filled,  and  Mrs.  Mayfield  and  the  Ha- 
thorns  took  part  in  the  festive  cere- 
mony, that  is,  they  did  not  sit  at 
the  table,  but  they  showed  themselves 
from  time  to  time,  and  made  their 
humble  guests  heartily  welcome  by 
word,  and  look,  and  smile,  as  their 
forefathers  had  done  at  harvest-time, 
each  in  their  century  and  generation. 

Presently  Bob  Messenger  arose 
solemnly,  with  his  horn  of  ale  in  his 
hand.  The  others  rose  after  him, 
knowing  well  what  he  was  going  to 
do,  and  chanted  with  him  the  ancient 
harvest-home  stave :  — 

"  Here 's  a  health  unto  our  master, 

The  founder  of  the  feast, 
Not  only  to  our  master, 

But  to  our  mistress. 
Two  voices.  Then  drink,  boys,  drink, 

And  see  as  you  do  not  spill, 
For  if  you  do,  you  shall  drink  to 
Our  health  wittf  a  free  good- 
will. 
Chorus.         Then  drink,  boys,  drink,"  &c. 

Corporal  Patrick  and  Rachael  left 
the  table.  They  had  waited  only  to 
take  part  in  this  compliment  to  their 
entertainers,  and  now  they  left.  The 
reason  was,  one  or  two  had  jeered 
them  before  grace. 

The  corporal  had  shaved  and  made 
himself  very  clean,  and  he  had  put  on 
his  faded  red  jacket,  which  he  always 
carried  about,  and  Rachael  had 
washed  his  neck-handkerchief,  and 
tiled  it  neatly  about  his  neck,  and  had 
9* 


put  on  herself  a  linen  collar  and  linen 
wristbands,  very  small  and  plain,  but 
white  and  starched ;  and  at  this  their 
humble  attempt  to  be  decent  and  nice 
one  or  two  (who  happened  to  be  dirty 
at  the  time)  could  not  help  sneering. 
Another  thing,  Itaehael  and  Patrick 
were  strangers.  Some  natives  cut  a 
jest  or  two  at  their  expense,  and 
Patrick  was  about  to  answer  by  fling- 
ing his  mug  at  one  man's  head ;  but 
Rachael  restrained  him,  and  said  : 
"  Be  patient,  grandfather.  They  were 
never  taught  any  better.  When  the 
farmer's  health  has  been  drunk  we 
can  leave  them." 

People  should  be  able  to  take  jests, 
or  to  answer  them  in  kind,  not  to 
take  them  to  heart ;  but  Rachael  and 
Patrick  had  seen  better  days  (they 
were  not  so  very  proud  and  irritable 
then),  and  now  Patrick,  naturally 
high-spirited,  was  sore,  and  could  not 
bear  to  be  filliped,  and  Rachael  was 
become  too  cold  and  bitter  towards 
all  the  vulgar  natures  that  blundered 
up  against  her,  not  meaning  her  any 
good,  nor  much  harm,  either,  poor 
devils ! 

A  giggle  greeted  their  departure ; 
but  it  must  be  owned  it  was  a  some- 
what uneasy  giggle. 

There  was  in  the  company  a  cer- 
tain Timothy  Brown  John,  who  was 
naturally  a  shoemaker,  but  was 
turned  out  into  the  stubble  annually 
at  harvest-time.  The  lad  had  a  small 
rustic  genius  for  music,  which  he  il- 
lustrated by  playing  the  clarionet  in 
church,  to  the  great  regret  of  the 
clergyman.  Now  after  the  chorus  one 
or  two  were  observed  to  be  nudging 
this  young  man,  and  he  to  be  making 
those  mock-modest  difficulties  which 
are  part  of  a  singer,  in  town  or  coun- 
try. 

"  Ay,  Tim,"  cried  Mrs.  Mayfield, 
"you  sing  us  a  song." 

"  He  have  got  a  new  one,  mis- 
tress ! "  put  in  a  carter's  lad,  with 
saucer  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  about,  boy  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  youngster,  "  it 
is  about  love"  (at  wiach  the  girla 


202 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


giggled);  "and  I  think  it  is  about 
you,  Dame  Mayfield." 

"  About  me  !  then  it  must  be  nice." 

Chorus  of  Rustics.  "  Haw !  haw  ! 
haw !  "• 

"Come,  Mr.  Brown  John,  I  will 
trouble  you  for  it,  directly.  I  can  see 
the  bottom  of  some  of  their  mugs, 
Jane." 

"  "Well,"  said  Mr.  Brown  John, 
looking  down,  "  I  don't  know  what 
to  say  about  it  Mayhap  you 
might  n't  like  it  quite  so  well  before 
so  much  company." 

"  Why  not,  pray  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  dame,  I  am 
afeard  I  shall  give  you  a  red  face,  like, 
with  this  here  song." 

"  If  you  do,  I  '11  give  you  one  with 
this  here  hand." 

Chorus.     "  Haw,  haw !    Ho  ! " 

"  Drat  the  boy,  sing,  and  have  done 
with  it." 

"  I  '11  do  my  best,  ma'am,"  replied 
Tim,  gravely. 

On  this,  "Mr.  Brown  John  drew 
from  his  packet  a  diminutive  flute, 
with  one  key,  and  sounded  his  G  at 
great  length.  He  then  paused,  to  let 
his  G  enter  his  own  mind  and  those 
around ;  he  then  composed  his  fea- 
tures like  a  preacher,  and  was  about 
to  enter  on  his  undertaking,  when 
the  whole  operation  was  suddenly, 
and  remorselessly,  and  provokingly 
interrupted  by  Mr.  Casenower,  who, 
struck  as  it  appeared  with  a  sudden, 
irresistible  idea,  burst  upon  them  all 
with  this  question  :  — 

"  Do  any  of  you  know  one  Rebecca 
Reid,  in  this  part  of  the  world  1  " 

The  company  stared. 

Some,  to  whom  this  question  had 
been  put  by  him  before,  giggled  ;  oth- 
ers scratched  their  heads  ;  others  got 
no  further  than  a  stricken  look.  A 
few  mustered  together  their  wits,  and 
assured  Mr.  Casenower  they  had 
never  heard  tell  of  "  the  wench." 

"  How  devilish  odd !  "  cried  Case- 
nower, "it  is  not  such  a  common 
combination  of  sounds,  one  would 
think." 

"  I  know  Hannah  Reid,"  squeaked 


a  small  cow-boy ;  he  added  with  en- 
thusiasm, "  she  is  a  capital  slider,  she 
is !  !  ! "  and  he  smiled  at  some  remi- 
niscence, perchance  of  a  joint  somer- 
sault upon  the  ice,  last  winter. 

"  Hannah  does  not  happen  to  be 
Rebecca,  young  gentleman,"  object- 
ed Casenower ;  "  sing  away,  John 
Brown." 

"  I  'm  a  going,  sir.  G — g — g — 
g— "  and  he  impressed  the  key-note 
once  more  upon  their  souls.  Then 
sang  Brown  John  the  following  song, 
and  the  rest  made  the  laughing  cho- 
rus, and,  as  they  all  laughed  in  differ- 
ent ways,  though  they  began  laugh- 
ing from  their  heads,  ended  in  laugh- 
ing from  their  hearts.  It  was  pleas- 
ant and  rather  funny,  and  proved  so 
successful,  that  after  this  II  Mmxtro 
Brown  John  and  his  song  were  asked 
to  all  the  feasts  in  la,  circle  of  seven 
miles.  There  were  eight  verses  :  we 
will  confine  ourselves  to  two,  because 
paper  is  not  absolutely  valueless,  what- 
ever the  trivoluminous  may  think. 

"  When  Richard  appeared,  how  my  heart 

pit-a-pat 
With  a  tenderly  motion,  with  which  it 

was  seized  ! 
To  hear  the  young  fellow's  gay,  innocent 

chat 
I  could  listen  forever,  0  dear  !  I  'm  so 

pleased  ! 

I  'm  so  pleased  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
I  'm  so  pleased  !  ha  1  ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 
I'm  a  going  to  be  married, — 0  dear ! 

I  'm  so  pleased  ! 

I  'm  a  going  to  be  married, — 0  dear  ! 
I  'm  so  pleased  ! 

Chorus.    I  'm  so  pleased,  &c. 

"  0  sweet  is  the  smell  of  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  sweet  are  the  cowslips  that  spring  in 

May  ; 
But   sweeter 's  my  lad  than  the  daisied 

lawn. 

Or  the  hay,  or  the  flower,  or  the  cows  at  the 
dawn. 

i  'm  so  pleased,"  &c. 

We  writers  can  tell "  the  what,"  but 
not  so  very  often  "  the  how,"  of  any- 
thing. I  can  give  Tim's  bare  words, 
but  it  is  not  in  my  power  nor  any 
man's  to  write  down  the  manner  of 
//  Maestro  in  sin<ring.  How  he  dwelt 
on  the  short  syllables,  and  abridged 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


203 


t!ic  long,  —  his  grave  face  till  he  came 
to  his  laugh,  —  and  then  the  enor- 
mous mouth  that  flew  suddenly  open, 
and  the  jovial  peal  that  came  ringing 
through  two  rows  of  teeth  like  white 
chess  pawns,  —  and  with  all  this 
his  quaint,  indescribable,  dulcet,  rustic 
twang,  that  made  his  insignificant 
melody  ring  like  church  bells  heard 
from  the  middle  of  a  wood,  and  taste 
like  methcglin  come  down  to  us  in  a 
yew-tree  cask  from  the  Druids  ! 

During  the  song,  one  Robert  Mun- 
day  and  his  son,  rural  fiddlers,  who 
by  instinct  nosed  festivities,  appeared 
at  the  gate,  each  with  a  green  bag. 
A  shriek  of  welcome  greeted  them  ; 
they  were  set  in  a  corner,  with  beef 
and  ale  galore,  and  soon  the  great  ta- 
ble was  carried  in,  the  ground  cleared, 
the  couples  made,  and  the  fiddles 
tuning. 

The  Messrs  Munday  made  some 
preliminary  flourishes,  like  hawks  hov- 
ering uncertain  where  to  pounce,  and 
then,  like  the  same  bird,  they  sud- 
denly dashed  into  "  The  day  in 
June." 

Their  style  was  rough,  and  bore  a 
family  likeness  to  ploughing,  but  it 
was  true,  clean,  and  spirited ;  the 
notes  of  the  arpeggio  danced  out  like 
starry  sparks  in  fireworks. 

Moreover,  the  Messrs.  Munday 
played  to  the  foot,  which  is  precisely 
what  your  melted-butter-violinist  al- 
ways fails  to  do,  whether  he  happens 
to  be  washing  out  the  soul  of  a  waltz, 
or  of  a  polka,  or  of  a  reel. 

They  also  played  so  as  to  raise  the 
spirits  of  all  who  heard  them,  young 
or  old,  which  is  an  artistic  effect  of 
the  very  highest  order,  however  at- 
tained, and  never  is  and  never  will 
be  attained  by  the  mclted-buttcr-vio- 
linist. 

The  fiddlers  being  merry,  the  dan- 
cers were  merry ;  the  dancers  being 
merry,  the  fiddlers  said  to  themselves, 
"  Aha !  we  have  not  missed  fire," 
and  so  grew  merrier  still.  And  thus 
the  electric  fire  of  laughter  and  music 
darted  to  and  fro.  Dance,  sons  and 
daughters  of  toil !  None  had  ever  a 


better  right  to-  dance  than  you  have 
this  sunny  afternoon  in  clear  Sep- 
tember. It  was  you  that  painfully 
ploughed  the  stiff  soil;  it  was  you 
that  trudged  up  the  high,  incommod- 
ing furrow,  and  painfully  cast  abroad 
the  equal  seed.  You  that  are  women 
bowed  the  back,  and  painfully  drilled 
holes  in  the  soil,  and  poured  in  the 
seed ;  and  thjs  month  past  you  have 
all  bent,  and,  with  sweating  brows, 
cut  down  and  housed  the  crops  that 
came  from  the  seed  you  planted. 
Dance  !  for  those  yellow  ricks,  tro- 
phies of  your  labor,  say  you  have  a 
right  to ;  those  barns,  bursting  with 
golden  fruit,  swear  you  have  a  right 
to.  Harvest-tide  comes  but  once  a 
year.  Dance  !  sons  and  daughters 
of  toil. 

Exult  over  your  work,  smile  with 
the  smiling  year,  and,  in  this  bright 
hour,  0  cease,  my  poor  soul,  to  envy 
the  rich  and  great !  Believe  me, 
they  arc  never,  at  any  hour  of  their 
lives,  so  cheery  as  you  are  now.  How 
can  they  be  ?  With  them  dancing  is 
tame  work,  an  every-day  business,  — 
no  rarity,  no  treat.  Don't  envy 
them,  —  God  is  just,  and  deals  the 
sources  of  content  with  a  more  equal 
hand  than  appears  on  the  surface  of 
things.  Dance,  too,  without  fear ; 
let  no  Puritan  make  you  believe  it  is 
wrong ;  things  are  wrong  out  of 
season,  and  right  in  season ;  to  dance 
in  harvest  is  as  becoming  as  to  be 
grave  in  church.  The  Almighty  has 
put  it  into  the  hearts  of  insects  to 
dance  in  the  afternoon  sun,  and  of 
men  and  women  in  every  age  and 
every  land  to  dance  round  the  gath- 
ered crop,  whether  it  be  corn,  or  oil, 
or  wine,  or  any  other  familiar  mir- 
acle that  springs  up  sixty-fold  and 
nurtures  and  multiplies  the  life  of 
man.  More  fire,  fiddlers !  play  to 
the  foot,  —  play  to  the  heart  the 
sprightly  "  Day  in  June."  Ay,  foot 
it  freely,  lads  and  lasses ;  my  own 
heart  is  warmer  to  think  you  are 
merry  once  or  twice  in  your  year  of 
labor.  Dance,  my  poor  brothers  and 
sisters,  sons  and  daughters  of  toil ! 


204 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


After  several  dances,  Mrs.  May- 
field,  who  had  been  uneasy  in  her 
mind  at  remaining  out  of  the  fun, 
could  bear  inaction  no  longer ;  so  she 
pounced  on  Robert  Hathorn  and 
drew  him  into  the  magic  square. 
Robert  dunced,  but  in  a  very  listless 
way ;  so  much  so,  that  his  mother, 
who  stood  by,  took  occasion  to  give 
him  a  push  and  say :  "  Is  that  the 
way  to  dance  ? "  at  which  poor  Robert 
tried  to  do  better,  but  his  limbs,  as 
well  as  his  face,  showed  how  far  his 
heart  was  from  his  heels. 

Now,  in  the  middle  of  this  dance, 
suddenly  loud  and  angry  sounds 
were  heard  approaching,  and  the 
voice  of  old  Patrick  was  soon  dis- 
tinguished, and  the  next  moment  he 
was  seen  following  Mr.  Hickman, 
and  hanging  on  his  rear,  loading 
him  with  invective.  Rachael  was  by 
his  side,  endeavoring,  in  vain,  to 
soothe  him,  and  to  end  what  to  her 
was  a  most  terrible  scene.  At  a  ges- 
ture from  Mrs.  Mayfield,  the  fiddlers 
left  off,  and  the  rustics  turned,  all 
curiosity,  towards  the  interruption. 
"  There  are  bad  hearts  in  the  world," 
shouted  Patrick  to  all  present,  —  "  ver- 
min that  steal  into  honest  houses  and 
file  *  them,  —  bad  hearts,  that  rob  the 
poor  of  that  which  is  before  life ;  O 
yes,  far  before  life ! "  and,  as  he  ut- 
tered these  words,  Patrick  was  ob- 
served to  stagger. 

"  The  old  man  is  drunk,"  said 
Hickman.  "  I  don't  know  what  he 
means." 

Rachael  colored  high  and  cried : 
"  No,  Master  Robert,  I  assure  you 
he  is  not  drunk,  but  he  is  not  him- 
self ;  he  has  been  complaining  this 
hour  past ;  see !  look  at  his  eye. 
Good  ]>eople,  my  grandfather  is  ill "  ; 
and,  indeed,  as  she  said  these  words, 
Patrick,  who,  from  the  moment  he 
had  staggered,  had  stared  wildly  and 
confusedly  around  him,  suddenly 
bowed  his  head  and  dropped  upon 
his  knees;  he  would  have  fallen  on 
his  face,  but  Rachael's  arm  now  held 
him  up. 

»  For  defile. 


In  a  moment  several  persons  came 
round  them  ;  amongst  the  rest,  Rob- 
ert and  Mrs.  Mayfield.  Robert 
loosened  his  neckcloth,  and,  looking 
at  the  old  man's  face  and  eye,  he  said, 
gravely  and  tenderly  :  "  Rachael,  I 
have  seen  the  like  of  this  before  —  in 
harvest." 

"  O  Master  Robert,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Rachael,   it  is   a   stroke    of  the 

sun ! "    He  turned   to    his    mother : 

]  "  God  forgive  us  all,  the  old  man  was 

never  fit  for  the  work  we  have  put 

him  to." 

"  Come,  don't  stand  gaping  there," 
cried  Mrs.  Mayfield ;  "  mount  my 
mare  and  gallop  for  the  doctor,  — 
don't  spare  her,  —  off  with  you ! 
Betsy,  get  a  bed  ready  in  my  gar- 
ret." 

"  Eh,  dear !  "  said  Mrs.  Hathorn, 
"  I  doubt  the  poor  thing's  troubles 
arc  over  "  ;  and  she  put  up  her  apron 
and  began  to  cry. 

"  0  no  ! "  cried  Rachael.  "  Grand- 
father, —  don't  leave  me  !  —  don't 
;  leave  me  !  " 

Corporal  Patrick's  lips  moved. 

"I  can't  see  ye!  I  can't  see 
any  of  ye !  "  he  said,  half-  fretfully. 
"  Ah  ! "  he  resumed,  as  if  a  light  had 
broken  in  on  him.  "  Yes  !  "  said  he, 
very  calmly,  "I  think  I  am  going"  ; 
but  the  next  moment  he  cried  in 
tones  that  made  the  by-standers  thrill, 
so  wild  and  piteous  they  were : 
"  My  daughter !  my  daughter  !  —  she 
will  miss  me  !  " 

Robert  Hathorn  fell  on  his  knees, 
and  took  the  old  hand  with  one  of 
those  grasps  that  bring  soul  in  con- 
tact with  soul ;  the  old  soldier,  who 
was  at  this  moment  past  seeing  or 
hearing,  felt  this  grasp,  and  turned  to 
it  as  an  unconscious  plant  turns  to 
the  light.  "  I  can't  see  you,"  said  he, 
faintly  ;  "  but,  whoever  you  are,  take 
care  of  my  child  !  —  she  is  such  a  good 
child  !  "  The  hands  spoke  to  one  an- 
other still ;  then  the  old  soldier  almost 
smiled,  and  the  anxious,  frightened 
look  of  his  face  began  to  calm. 
"  Thank  God,"  he  faltered,  "  they  are 
going  to  take  care  of  my  child  1 "  "And 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


205 


almost  with  these  words  he  lost  all 
sense,  and  lay  pale,  and  calm,  and 
motionless  at  their  feet,  and  his  hand 
could  grasp  Robert's  no  more.  There 
was  a  moment  of  dead  silence  and  in- 
quiring looks.  Robert  looked  into 
his  face  gravely  and  attentively. 

When  he  had  so  inspected  him  a 
little  while,  he  turned  to  them  all, 
and  he  said,  in  a  deep  and  almost  a 
stern  voice  :  — 

"Hats  off!" 

They  all  uncovered,  and  stood  look- 
ing like  stricken  deer  at  the  old  sol- 
dier as  he  lay.  The  red  jacket  had 
nothing  ridiculous  now.  When  it 
was  new  and  bright  it  had  been  in 
great  battles.  They  asked  themselves 
now,  Had  they  really  sneered  at  this 
faded  rag  of  England's  glory,  and  as 
that  withered  hero  1 

"  Did  n't  think  the  old  man  was  a 
going  to  leave  us  like  that,"  said  one 
of  these  rough  penitents,  "  or  I  'd 
never  ha  wagged  my  tongue  again 
mi." 

Mrs.  Mayfield  gave  orders  to  have 
him  carried  up  to  her  garret,  and  four 
stout  rustics,  two  at  his  head  and  two 
at  his  feet,  took  him  up  the  stairs, 
and  laid  him  there  on  a  decent  bed. 
When  Rachael  saw  the  clean  floor, 
the  little  carpet  round  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  the  bright  walls  and  windows, 
and  the  snowy  sheets,  made  ready  for 
her  grandfather,  she  hid  her  face  and 
wept,  and  said  but  two  words,  — 
"  Too  late !  too  late !  " 

As  Hachael  was  following  her 
grandfather  up  the  stairs,  she  met 
Hirkman  :  that  worthy  had  watched 
this  sorrowful  business  in  silence ;  he 
had  tears  in  his  eyes,  and,  coming  to 
her,  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  Ra- 
chacl,  don't  fret, —  I  will  notdesert  you 
now."  On  the  landing,  a  moment 
after,  Rachael  met  Robert  Hathorn  : 
he  said  to  her,  "  Rachael,  your  grand- 
father trusted  you  to  me. 

When  Hickman  said  that  to  her, 
Rachael  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

When  Robert  said  that  to  her, 
she  lowered  her  eyes  away  from 
him. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  poor  battered  soldier  lay  some 
hours  between  life  and  death.  Just 
before  sunrise  Rachael,  who  had 
watched  him  all  night,  and  often 
moistened  his  temples  with  vinegar, 
opened  the  window,  and,  as  the  morn- 
ing air  came  into  the  room,  a  change 
for  the  better  was  observed  in  the 
patient,  —  a  slight  color  stole  into  his 
pale  cheeks,  and  he  seemed  to  draw 
a  fuller  breath,  and  his  heart  beat 
more  perceptibly.  Rachael  kneeled 
and  prayed  for  him,  and  then  she 
prayed  to  him  not  to  leave  her 
alone ;  the  sun  had  been  up  about 
an  hour,  and  came  fiery  bright  into 
the  white-washed  room  ;  for  it  looked 
towards  the  east,  and  Corporal  Pat- 
rick's lips  moved,  but  without  uttering 
a  sound.  Rachael  prayed  for  him 
again  most  fervently.  About  nine 
o'clock  his  lips  moved,  and  this  time 
he  spoke :  — 

"  —  Reur  rank,  right  wheel !  —  " 

The  next  moment,  a  light  shot 
into  his  eye.  His  looks  rested  upon 
Rachael :  he  smiled  feebly,  but  con- 
tentedly, then  closed  his  eyes  and 
slumbered  ffgain. 

Corporal  Patrick  lived.  But  it 
was  a  near  thing;  a  very  near  thing, 
—  he  was  saved  by  one  of  i  hose  acci- 
dents we  call  luck,  —  when  Mrs. 
Mayfield's  Tom  rode  for  the  doctor, 
the  doctor  was  providentially  out. 
Had  he  been  in,  our  tale  would  be 
now  bidding  farewell  to  Corporal 
Patrick,  —  for  this  doctor  was  one  of 
the  pig-sticking  ones.  He  loved  to 
stab  men  and  women  with  a  tool  that 
has  slain  far  more  than  the  sword  in 
modern  days  ;  it  is  called  "  the  lan- 
cet." Had  he  found  a  man  insensi- 
ble, he  would  have  stabbed  him,  poor 
man !  he  always  stabbed  a  fellow- 
creature  when  he  caught  it  insensible  : 
not  vcr}r  generous,  was  it? — now, 
had  he  drawn  from  those  old  veins 
one  tablespoonful  of  that  red  fluid 
which  is  the  life  of  a  man,  the  aged 
man  would  have  come  to  his  senses 
only  to  sink  the  next  hour,  and  die  for 


206 


CLOUDS  AND  SUXSHIXE. 


want  of  that  vital  stream  stolen  from 
him  by  rule. 

As  it  was,  he  breathed,  and  came 
back  to  life  by  slow  degrees.  At 
first  his  right  arm  was  powerless  ; 
then  he  could  not  move  the  right  leg ; 
but  at  last  he  recovered  the  use  of  his 
limbs,  but  remained  feeble,  and  his 
poor  head  was  sore  confused  :  one  mo- 
ment he  would  be  quite  himself;  an- 
other, his  memory  of  recent  events 
would  be  obscured,  —  and  then  he 
would  shake  his  head  and  sigh.  But 
nature  was  strong  in  him ;  and  he  got 
better,  —  but  slowly. 

As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  walk, 
Rachael  proposed  to  Mrs.  Mayfield 
to  return  home,  but  Mrs.  Hathorn 
interposed,  and  requested  Rachael  to 
take  her  own  servant's  place  for  an- 
other week,  in  order  to  let  the  ser- 
vant visit  her  friends.  On  these 
terms,  Rachael  remained,  and  did  the 
work  of  the  Hathorns'  house,  and  it 
was  observed  that  during  this  period 
more  color  came  to  her  cheek,  and 
her  listlessness  and  languor  sensibly 
diminished. 

She  was  very  active  and  zealous  in 
her  work,  and  old  Hathorn  was  so 
pleased  with  her,  that  he  said  one  day 
to  Mrs.  Hathorn  :  "  I  don't  care  if 
Betsy  never  comes  back  at  all ;  this 
one  is  worth  a  baker's  dozen  of  her, 
this  Rachael." 

"  Betsy  will  serve  our  turn  as  well 
in  the  long  run,"  said  Mrs.  Hathorn, 
somewhat  dryly  and  thoughtfully. 

"  Betsy  !  "  replied  the  former,  con- 
temptuously ;  "  there  is  more  sense  in 
this  Rachael's  forefinger  than  in  that 
wench's  whole  carcass." 

It  was  about  two  days  after  this 
that  the  following  conversation  took 
place  between  Robert  Hathorn  and 
his  mother :  — 

"  Is  it  true,  what  I  hear,  that  Mr. 
Patrick  talks  about  going  next 
week  ?  " 

"Have  not  they  been  here  long 
enough,  Robert?  I  wish  they  may 
not  have  been  here  too  long." 

"  Why  too  long,  when  you  asked 
them  to  stay  yourself,  mother  ?  " 


"  Yes,  I  did,  and  I  doubt  I  did 
very  wrong.  But  it  is  hard  for  a 
mother  to  deny  her  son." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  moth- 
er, but  I  don't  remember  that  ever  I 
asked  you." 

"  No !  no.    I  don't  say  that  you 

ever  spoke  your  mind,  Robert ;  "but 

you  looked  up  in  my  face,  and  showed 

j  your  wish  plain  enough  to  my  eye ; 

i  and  you  sec  a  poor  foolish  body  like  me 

j  does  n't  know  how  to  say  no  to  her 

boy  that  never  vexed  her.     I  should 

have  been  a  better  friend  to  you  if  I 

had  turned  my  head  away,  and  made 

believe  not  to  see  what  is  in  your 

heart." 

Robert  paused  awhile,  then,  in  a 
low,  anxious  voice,  he  whispered : 
•"  Don't  you  like  her,  mother  ? 

"  Yes !  I  like  her,  my  poor  soul. 
What  is  there  to  dislike  in  her  ?  But 
I  don't  know  her." 

"  But  I  know  her  as  well  as  if  we 
had  been  seven  years  acquainted." 

"  You  talk  like  a  child  !  How  can 
you  know  a  girl  that  comes  from  a 
strange  part  ? " 

"  I  'd  answer  for  her,  mother." 

"  I  would  n't  answer  for  any  young 
wench  of  them  all !  I  do  notice  she 
is  very  close ;  ten  to  one  if  she  has 
not  an  acquaintance  of  some  sort,  good 
or  bad." 

"  A  bad  acquaintance,  mother ! 
Never  !  If  you  had  seen  her  through 
all  the  harvest-month,  as  I  did,  re- 
spect herself  and  make  others  respect 
her,  you  would  see  that  girl  never 
could*  have  made  a  trip  in  her  life." 

"  Now,  Robert,  what  makes  yon  so 
sad,  like,  if  you  have  no  misgivings 
about  her  ? " 

"  Because,  mother,  I  don't  think 
she  likes  me  so  well  as  I  do  her." 

"All  the  better,"  said  Mrs.  Ha- 
thorn, dryly  ;  "  make  up  your  mind 
to  that."  " 

"  Do  not  say  so  !  do  not  say  so  ! " 
said  Robert,  piteously. 

"  Well,  Robert,  she  does  not  hate 
you,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Why 
is  she  in  such  a  hurry  to  go  away  ?  " 

"  Because  she  has  some  one  in  her 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


207 


own  country  she  likes  better  than 
me." 

"  Ay !  that  is  the  way  you  boys 
read  women.  More  likely  she  is 
afraid  of  liking  you  too  well,  and 
making  mischief  in  a  family." 

"  0  mother,  do  you  think  it  is 
that?" 

"  There,  I  am  a  fool  to  tell  you 
such  things." 

"  O  no,  no,  no  !  There  is  no 
friend  like  a  mother." 

"  There  is  no  fool  like  a  mother, 
that  is  my  belief." 

"  No,  no !  Give  me  some  comfort, 
mother ;  tell  me  you  see  some  signs 
of  liking  in  her." 

"  Well,  then,  when  she  is  quite 
sure  you  are  not  looking  her  way,  I 
can  see  her  eye  dwell  upon  you  as  if 
it  was  at  home." 

"  0,  how  happy  you  make  me ! 
But,  mother,  how  you  must  have 
watched  her ! " 

"  Of  course  I  watched  her,  and  you 
too;  I  have  seen  a  long  while  how 
matters  were  going." 

"  But  you  never  spoke,  to  Rose,  or 
my  father  ?  " 

"  If  I  had,  she  would  have  been 
turned  out  of  the  house,  and  a  good 
job  too ;  but  you  would  have  fretted, 
you  know" ;  and  Mrs.  Hathorn  sighed. 

"  Mother,  I  must  kiss  you.  I  shall 
have  courage  to  speak  to  father  about 
it  now." 

"  Take  a  thought,  Robert.  His 
heart  is  set  upon  your  marrying  your 
cousin.  It  would  be  a  bitter  pill  to 
the  poor  old  man,  and  his  temper  is 
very  hasty.  For  Heaven's  sake  take 
a  thought.  I  don't  know  what  to  do, 
I  am  sure." 

"  I  must  do  it  soon  or  late,"  said 
Robert,  resolutely.  "  No  time  so  good 
as  now.  Father  is  hasty,  and  he  will 
be  angry,  no  doubt ;  but  after  a  while 
he  will  give  in,  I  don't  ask  him  fa- 
vors every  day.  Do  you  consent, 
mother  ?  " 

"  0  Robert,  what  is  the  use  asking 
me  whether  I  consent?  I  have  only 
one  son,  and  he  is  a  good  one.  I  am 
afraid  I  could  not  say  no  to  your  hap- 


piness, suppose  it  was  my  duty  to  say 
no  ;  but  your  father  is  not  such  a  fool 
as  I  am,  and  I  am  main  doubtful 
whether  he  will  ever  consent.  I  wish 
you  could  think  better  of  it." 

"  I  will  try  him,  mother,  no  later 
than  to-day.  Why,  here  he  comes. 
O,  there  is  Mr.  Casenower  with  him  ; 
that  is  unluckv.  You  get  him  away, 
mother,  and  I'll  open  my  mind  to 
father." 

Old  Hathorn  came  past  the  win- 
dow, and  entered  the  room  where 
Robert  and  Mrs.  Hathorn  were.  The 
farmer  stumped  in,  and  sat  down  with 
some  appearance  of  fatigue.  Mr. 
Casenower  sat  down  opposite  him. 

That  gentleman  had  in  his  hand  a 
cabbage.  He  was  proving  to  the 
farmer  that  this  plant  is  more  nutri- 
tious than  the  potato.  The  theory  was 
German  in  the  first  instance.  "  There 
are  but  three  nourishing  principles  in 
all  food,"  argued  Mr.  Casenower, 
"  and  of  those,  what  we  call '  fibrine ' 
is  the  most  effective.  Now,  see,  I 
put  my  nail  to  this  stalk,  and  it 
readily  reduces  itself  to  a  bundle  of 
little  fibres ;  see,  those  are  pure  fi- 
brine, and,  taken  into  the  stomach, 
make  the  man  muscular.  Can  any- 
thing be  clearer  ? " 

Mr.  Hathorn,  who  had  shown 
symptoms  of  impatience,  replied  to 
this  effect :  "  That  he  knew  by  per- 
sonal experience  that  cabbage  turns 
to  nothing  but  hot  water  in  a  man's 
belly." 

"  There  are  words  to  come  out  of  a 
man's  mouth ! "  objected  Mrs.  Ha- 
thorn. 

"  Better  than  cabbage  going  into 
it,"  grunted  the  farmer. 

"  Ah,  you  know  nothing  of  chemis- 
try, my  good  friend." 

"  Well,  sir,  you  say  there  is  a  deal 
of  heart  in  a  cabbage  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"  Then  I  tell  you  what  I  '11  do  with 
you,  sir.  There  is  some  fool  has 
been  and  planted  half  an  acre  of  cab- 
bages in  my  barley-field  —  " 

'"  It  was  not  a  fool,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Hathorn,  sharply,  "it  was  me." 


208 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


"  It  was  not  a  fool,  you  see,  sir ;  it 
wns  a  woman,"  responded  Hathorn, 
mighty  dryly.  "  Well,  sir,  you  train 
on  the  Dame's  cabbages  for  a  month, 
and  all  that  time  I  Ml  eat  nothing 
stronger  than  beef  and  bacon,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  month  I  '11  fight  you 
for  a  pot  of  beer,  if  you  are  so  mind- 
ed." 

"  This  is  the  way  we  reason  in  the 
country,  eh,  Mr.  Robert  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  would  serve  father 
right  if  you  took  him  up,  sir,  with  his 
game  leg ;  but  I  don't  hold  with  cab- 
bages for  all  that ;  a  turnip  is  watery 
enough,  but  a  cabbage  and  a  sponge 
are  pretty  much  one,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Mr.  Casenower,"  put  in  Mrs.  Ha- 
thorn, "  did  n't  you  promise  to  show 
me  a  pansy  in  your  garden,  that  is  to 
win  the  next  prize  at  Wallingford  ?  " 

"  I  did,  ma'am,  but  you  should  not 
call  it '  Pansy ' ;  '  Heart's-ease  '  is  bad 
enough,  without  going  back  to  '  Pan- 
sy.' Viola  tricolor  is  the  name  of  the 
flower,  —  the  scientific  name." 

"  No,"  said  old  Hathorn,  stoutly. 

"No!  What  do  you  mean  by 
no  ?  " 

"  What  are  names  for  ?  To  re- 
member things  by  ;  then  the  scientif- 
ickost  name  must  be  the  one  that  it 
is  easiest  to  remember.  Now,  pans}' 
is  a  deal  easier  to  remember  than 
'  vile  tricolor.' " 

"  I  am  at  your  service,  Mrs.  Ha- 
thorn ;  come  along,  for  Heaven's 
sake " ;  and  off  bustled  Mr.  Case- 
newer  towards  the  garden  with  Mrs. 
Hathorn. 

"  Father,"  said  Robert,  after  an 
uneasy  pause,  "  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you,  very  particular." 

"  Have  you,  though  ?  well,  out 
with  it,  my  lad  ! " 

"  Father !  —  " 

At  this  moment,  in  bustled  Mr. 
Casenower  again.  "  O  Mr.  Robert, 
I  forgot  something.  Let  me  tell  you, 
now  I  think  of  it.  I  want  you  to 
find  out  this  Rebecca  Reid  for  me. 
She  lives  somewhere  near,  within  a 
few  miles.  I  don't  exactly  know  how 
many.  Can't  you  find  her  out  ? " 


"Why,  sir,"  said  Robert,  "it  is 
like  looking  for  one  poppy  in  a  field 
of  standing  wheat." 

"  No,  no !  When  you  go  to  mar- 
ket, ask  all  the  farmers  from  different 
parishes  whether  they  know  her." 

"  Haw,  haw,  haw  !~"  went  Hathorn, 
senior.  "  Yes,  do,  Robert.  Ho. 
ho  !" 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  he  is 
laughing  at  ?  "  said  Mr.  Casenower. 
dryly.  ' 

"  Father  thinks  you  will  make  mo 
the  laughing-stock  of  the  market, 
sir,"  said  Robert,  with  a  faint  smile ; 
"  but  never  mind  him,  sir,  I  shall  try 
and  oblige  you," 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow,  Robert. 
I  must  go  back  to  Mrs.  Hathorn"; 
and  off  he  bustled  again. 

"  Father,"  began  Robert ;  but  be- 
fore he  could  open  his  subject,  voices 
were  heard  outside,  and  Mrs.  May- 
field  came  in,  followed  by  Richard 
Hickman. 

"  Tic  !  tic  !  tic  !  "  said  poor  Robert, 
peevishly,  for  he  foresaw  endless  in- 
terruptions. 

Mr.  Hickman  had  been  for  some 
minutes  past  employed  in  the  agree- 
able occupation  of  bringing  Mrs.  May- 
field  to  the  point ;  but,  for  various 
reasons,  Mrs.  Mayfield  did  not  want 
to  be  brought  to  the  point  that  fore- 
noon. One  of  those  reasons  was, 
that,  although  she  liked  Hickman 
well  enough  to  marry  him,  she  liked 
somebody  else  better,  and  she  was 
not  yet  sure  as  to  this  person's  in- 
tentions. She  wanted,  therefore,  to 
be  certain  she  could  not  have  Paul, 
before  she  committed  herself  to  Peter. 
Now,  certain  -ladies,  when  they  do 
not  want  to  be  brought  to  the  point, 
have  ways  of  avoiding  it  that  a  man 
would  Hardly  hit  upon.  One  of 
them  is,  to  be  constantly  moving 
about ;  for,  they  argue,  "  If  he  can't 
pin  my  body  to  any  spot,  he  can't  pin 
my  soul,  for  my  soul  is  contained  in. 
my  body  "  ;  and  there  is  a  certain  vul- 
gar philosophy  in  this.  Another  is, 
to  be  absorbed  in  some  small  mat- 
ter, that  just  then  they  cannot  do 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


209 


justice  to  tHe  larger  question,  and  so 
modestly  postpone  it. 

"  Will  I  be  yours  till  death  us  do 
part  ?  now,  how  can  I  tell  you  just 
now  ?  such  a  question  demands  at 
least  some  attention ;  and  look  at 
this  hole  in  my  lace  collar,  which  I 
am  mending ;  if  I  don't  give  my 
whole  soul  to  it,  how  can  I  mend  it 


Mr.  Hickman  had  no  sooner  shown 
Mrs.  Mayfield  that  he  wanted  to 
bring  her  to  the  point,  than  he  found 
himself  in  for  some  hard  work  ;  twice 
he  had  to  cross  the  farm-yard  with 
her ;  he  had  to  take  up  a  sickly  chick- 
en and  pronounce  upon  its  ailment. 
He  had  to  get  some  milk  in  a  pail 
and  give  one  of  her  calves  a  drink. 
He  hud  to  bring  one  cow  from  pad- 
dock to  stall,  and  another  from  stall 
to  paddock.  Heaven  knew  why ; 
and  when  all  this  and  much  more  was 
done,  the  lady  caught  sight  of  our 
friends  in  the  Hathorns'  kitchen,  and, 
crying  briskly,  "  Come  this  way," 
led  Mr.  Hickman  into  company  where 
she  knew  he  could  not  press  the  in- 
opportune topic. 

"  Curse  her ! "  muttered  the  enam- 
ored one,  as  he  followed  her  into 
the  Hathorns'  kitchen. 

After  the  usual  greetings,  the  farm- 
er, observing  Robert's  impatience,  said 
to  Hickman  :  "  If  you  will  excuse 
me  for  a  minute,  farmer,  Robert 
wants  to  speak  to  me ;  we  are  going 
towards  the  b;irn."  He  then  beck- 
oned Mrs.  Mayfield,  and  whispered 
in  her  ear :  "  Don't  let  this  one  set 
you  against  my  Robert,  that  is  worth 
a  hundred  of  him." 

Mrs.  Mayfield  whispered  in  return  : 
"  And  don't  let  your  Robert  shilly- 
shally so,  because  this  one  does  not 
—  you  understand  —  " 

"  All  right,"  replied  Hathorn  ; 
"  ten  to  one  if  it  is  not  you  he  wants 
to  speak  to  me  about." 

Hathorn  and  his  son  then  saun- 
tered into  the  farm-yard,  and  Hick- 
man gained  what  he  had  been  trying 
for  so  long,  a  quiet  tete-a-tete  with 
Mrs.'  Mayfield ;  for  all  that,  if  a 


woman  is  one  of  those  that  have  a 
wish,  it  is  dangerous  to  drive  her  to 
the  point. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Mayfield,"  said  he, 
quietly  but  firmly,  "  I  am  courting 
you  this  six  months,  and  now  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  ray  answer. 
'  Yes/  or  '  no,'  if  you  please." 

Mrs.  Mayfield  sidled  towards  the 
window ;  it  commanded  the  farm- 
yard. Robert  and  his  father  were 
walking  slowly  up  and  down  by  the 
side  of  the  farm-yard  pond.  Mrs. 
Mayfield  watched  them  intently,  then, 
half  turning  towards  Hickman,  she 
said  slowly  :  "  Why,  as  to  that,  Mr. 
Hickman,  you  have  certainly  come 
after  me  awhile,  and  I  '11  not  deny  I 
find  you  very  good  company ;  but  I 
have  been  married  once  and  made  a 
great  mistake,  as  you  have  heard,  I 
|  dare  say  ;  so  now  I  am  obliged  to  be 
cautious." 

"  What,  are  y»u  afraid  of  my  tem- 
per, Rose  ?  I  am  not  reckoned  a 
bad-tempered  one,  any  more  than 
yourself." 

"  O  no !  I  have  no  fault  to  find 
with  you,  —  only  we  have  not  been 
acquainted  so  very  long." 

"  That  is  a  fault  will  mend  every 
day." 

"  Of  course  it  will ;  well,  when  you 
are  settled  on  Bix,  we  shall  see  you 
mostly  every  day,  and  then  we  shall 
know  one  another  better ;  for,  if  you 
have  no  faults,  I  have ;  and  then  you 
will  know  better  what  sort  of  a  bar- 
gain you  are  making :  and  then  — 
we  will  see  about  it." 

"Better  tell  the  truth,"  said  the 
all-observant  Hickman. 

"  The  truth ! " ' 

"  Ay,  that  the  old  man  wants  you 
to  marry  Bob  Hathorn.  O,  I  am 
down  upon  him  this  many  a  day." 

"  Robert  Hathorn  is  nothing  to 
me,"  replied  the  Mayfield  ;  "  but,  since 
you  put  him  in  my  head,  I  confess  I 
might  do  worse." 

"  How  could  you  do  worse  than 
marry  a  lad  who  has  nothing  but  his 
two  arms  ?  " 

Mrs.  Mayfield,  looking  slyly  through 
N 


210 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


the  window,  observed  Robert  and  his 
father  to  be  in  earnest  conversation ; 
this  somewhat  colored  her  answer. 
She  replied  quickly,  "  Better  poor  and 
honest,  than  half  rich  and  three  parts 
of  a  rogue  !  " 

"Is  thafr  for  me,  if  you  please  ?  " 
said  Hickman,  calmly  but  firmly. 

"  No !  I  don't  say  it  is,"  replied  the 
lady,  fearful  she  had  gone  too  far; 
"  but  still  I  wonder  at  your  choosing 
this  time  for  pressing  me." 

"  Why  not  this  time,  as  well  as 
another*  pray  ?  "  and  Hickman  eyed 
her  intently,  though  secretly. 

"  Why  not ! "  said  she,  and  she 
paused ;  for  the  dialogue  between  Ha- 
thorn  and  his  son  was  now  so  ani- 
mated, that  the  father's  tones  reached 
even  to  her  car. 

"  Ay !  why  not  ?  "  repeated  Hick- 
man. 

The  lady  turned  on  him,  and,  with 
a  sudden  change  of  manner,  said  very 
sharply,  "  Ask  your  own  conscience. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean !  " 

"I'll  tell  you.  This  old  Patrick 
was  miscalling  you,  when  he  fell  ill. 
They  say  it  was  a  stroke  of  the  sun, 
—  maybe  it  was:  but  I  should  say 
passion  had  something  to  do  with  it 
too ;  the  old  man  said  words  to  you 
that  none  of  the  others  noticed,  but  I 
did.  He  said  as  much  as  that  you 
had  robbed  some  one  of  what  is  before 
life  in  this  world." 

"  Ay,  and  what  is  before  life,  I  won- 
der ?  "  said  the  satirical  Hickman. 

"  Why,  nothing,"  replied  the  frank 
Mrs.  Mayfield,  "  if  you  go  to  that ; 
but  it  is  "a  common  saying  that  a 
'  pood  name  is  before  life,'  and  that  is 
what  the  old  man  meant." 

"  I  wonder  you  should  take  any  no- 
tice of  what  that  old  man  says,  and 
above  all  his  daughter." 

"  -His  daughter,  Mr.  Hickman ! 
Why,  I  never  mentioned  his  daugh- 
ter, for  my  part.  You  have  been  and 
put  your  "own  bricks  on  my  founda- 
tion." 

Hickman  looked  confused. 

"  You  are  a  fool,  Richard  Hick- 
man  !  You  have  told  me  more  than 


I  knew,  and  I  see  more  than  you  tell 
me.  You  have  led  that  girl  astray, 
and  deserted  her  likely,  you  little 
scamp ! "  ( Hickman  was  five  foot  ten. ) 

"Nonsense!"  put  in  Hickman. 
"  That  Rachael  shall  never  come  be- 
tween you  and  me  ;  but  I  '11  tell  you 
who  the  girl  stands  between  :  you  and 
your  Robert,  that  the  farmer  wants  to 
put  in  the  traces  with  you  against  his 
will." 

"  You  are  a  liar !  "  cried  Rose 
Mayfield,  coloring  to  her  temples. 

Hickman  answered  coolly  :  "  Thank 
you  for  the  compliment,  Rose.  No, 
it  is  the  truth.  You  see,  when  a  man  is 
wrapped  up  in  a  woman,  as  I  am  in 
you,  he  finds  out  everything  that  con- 
cerns her ;  and  your  boy,  Tom,  tells 
me  that  Robert  is  as  fond  of  her  as  a 
cow  of  a  calf." 

"  He  fond  of  that  Rachael  ?  Na !  " 

"  Why,  Rachael  is  a  well-looking 
lass,  if  you  go  to  that." 

"  And  so  she  is,"  pondered  Mrs. 
Mayfield  ;  and  in  a  moment  many  lit- 
tle circumstances  in  Robert's  conduct 
became  clear  by  this  new  light  Hick- 
man had  given  her.  She  struggled, 
and  recovered  her  outward  composure. 
"  Well,"  said  she,  stoutly,  "  what  is  it 
to  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  not  much,  I  hope.  Give 
me  your  hand,  Rose ;  /  don't  fancy 
any  girl  but  you.  And  name  the  day, 
if  you  will  be  so  good." 

"  No,  no !  "  said  Rose  Mayfield, 
nearly  crying  with  vexation.  "  I 
won't  marry  any  of  you,  —  a  set  of 
rogues  and  blockheads.  And,  if  it  is 
true,  I  don't  thank  you  for  telling  me. 
You  are  a  sly,  spiteful  dog,  and  I 
don't  care  how  often  you  ride  past  my 
house  without  hooking  bridle  to  the 
gate,  Dick  Hickman." 

Hickman  bit  his  lips,  but  he  kept 
his  temper.  "  What !  all  this  because 
Bob  Hathorn's  taste  is  not  so  good  as 
mine  !  Ought  I  to  suffer  for  his  fol- 
ly?" 

"  O,  it  is  not  for  that,  don't  think 
it !  But  I  don't  want  a  lover  that 
i  has  ruined  other  women ;  it  is  not 
lucky,  to  say  the  least." 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


211 


"What,  all  this,  because  a  girl 
jumped  into  my  arms  one  clay  ?  Why, 
I  am  not  so  hard  upon  you.  I  hear 
tales  about  you,  you  know,  but  I  only 
laugh,  —  even  about  Frank  Fairficld 
and  you."  (Mrs.  Mayfield  gave  a  lit- 
tle start.)  "  Neither  you  nor  I  are  an- 
gels, you  know.  Why  should  we  be 
hard  on  one  another  '?  " 

Mrs.  Mayfield,  red  as  fire,  inter- 
rupted him.  "  My  faults,  if  I  have 
any,  have  hurt  me  only;  but  yours 
never  hurt  you,  and  ruined  others  ; 
and  you  say  no  more  about  me  than 
you  know,  or  you  will  get  a  slap  in 
the  mouth,  and  there 's  my  door  ;  you 
take  it  at  a  word,  and  I  '11  excuse  any 
further  visits  from  you,  Mr.  Hick- 
man." 

These  words,  with  a  finger  pointing 
to  the  door,  and  a  flashing  eye,  left 
nothing  for  Hickman  but  to  retire, 
which  he  did,  boiling  with  indignation, 
mortification,  and  revenge.  "  This  is 
all  along  of  Rachael.  She  has  blown 
me,"  muttered  he,  between  his  teeth. 
"  I  have  got  the  bag ;  you  sha'  n't  gain 
anything  by  it,  Rachael ! " 

It  will  be  remembered  that  when 
Patrick  lay  dying  or  dead,  as  he  sup- 
posed, this  Hickman  had  a  good  im- 
pulse, and  told  Rac-hacl  he  would 
never  desert  her :  in  this  he  was  per- 
fectly sincere  at  the  moment.  People 
utterly  destitute  of  principle  abound 
in  impulses.  They  have  good  im- 
pulses, which  generally  come  to  noth- 
ing or  next  to  nothing;  and  bad 
impulses,  which  they  put  in  prac- 
tice. 

Mr.  Hickman  had  time  to  think 
over  his  good  impulse,  and,  according- 
ly, he  thought  better  of  it,  and  found 
that  Rose  Mayfield  was  too  great  a 
prize  to  resign.  He  therefore  kept 
out  of  the  way  more  than  a  week  (a 
suspicious  circumstance,  which  Mrs. 
Mayfield  did  not  fail  to  couple  with 
old  Patrick's  words),  and  his  pity  for 
Rachael  evaporated  in  all  that  time. 
"  What  the  worse  is  she  for  me  now? 
Hang  her,  I  offered  her  money,  and 
what  not ;  but  I  suppose  nothing  will 
serve  her  turn  but  hooking  me  for 


life,  or  else  having  her  spite  out,  and 
spilling  my  milk  for  me  here." 

It  was  a  fixed  notion  in  this  man's 
mind  that  Rachael  would  do  all  she 
could  to  ruin  his  suit  with  Mrs.  May- 
field,  and  when  he  got  the  "  sack,"  or, 
as  he  vulgarly  called  it,  "  the  bag," 
he  attributed  it,  in  spite  of  Rose  May- 
field's  denial,  to  some  secret  revela- 
tion on  Rachael's  part,  and  a  furious 
impulse  to  be  revenged  on  her  took 
possession  of  him. 

Now  this  bad  impulse,  unlike  his 
good  one,  had  no  time  to  cool.  As 
he  went  towards  the  stable,  the  Devil 
would  have  it  he  should  meet  Robert 
Hathorn.  At  sight  of  him  our  worthy 
acted  upon  his  impulse.  Robert,  who 
was  coming  hastily  from  his  father, 
with  his  brow  knit  and  his  counte- 
nance flushed,  would  have  passed 
Hickman  with  the  usual  greeting, 
but  Hickman  would  not  let  ham  off  so 
easily. 

"  What,  so  you  have  got  my  old 
lass  here  still,  Master  Robert "?  " 

Your  old  lass  !    Not  that  I  know 
of. 

'  Rachael  Wright,  you  know." 
Rachael  Wright  your  lass !  " 

'  Ay  !  and  a  very  nice  lass  too,  till 
we  fell  out.  She  gave  me  a  broad 
hint  just  now,  but  I  am  for  higher 
game.  You  could  not  lend  me  a  spur, 
could  you,  Mr.  Robert  1  Mine  is 
broken." 

"  No." 

"  Never  mind ;  good  morning ! 
good  morning! " 

Hickman's  looks  and  contemptuous 
tones  had  eked  out  the  few  words 
with  which  he  had  stabbed  Robert, 
and,  together  with  the  libertine  char- 
acter of  the  man,  had  effectually 
blackened  Rachael  in  Robert's  eyes. 

This  done,  away  went  the  poisoner, 
and  chuckled  as  he  went.  • 

Robert  Hathorn  stood  pale  as  denth, 
looking  after  him.  To  this  stupefac- 
tion succeeded  a  feeling  of  sickness, 
and  a  sense  of  despair,  and  Robert  sat 
down  upon  the  shaft  of  an  empty 
cart,  and  gazed  with  stony  eye  upon 
the  ground  at  his  feet.  His  feelings 


212 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


were  inexpressibly  bitter.  Where 
was  he  to  hope  to  find  a  woman  he 
could  respect,  if  this  paragon  was  a 
girl  of  loose  conduct  ?  Then  came  re- 
morse :  for  this  Uachael  he  had  this 
moment  all  but  quarrelled  with  his 
father,  —  their  first  serious  misunder- 
standing. After  a  fierce  struggle 
with  himself,  he  forced  himself  to  see 
that  she  must  be  wrenched  out  of  his 
heart  He  rose,  pale  but  stern,  after 
a  silent  agony  that  lasted  a  full  hour, 
though  to  him  it  seemed  but  a  minute, 
and  went  and  looked  after  his  father. 
He  found  him  in  the  barn  watching 
the  threshers,  but  like  one  who  did 
not  see  what  he  was  looking  at.  His 
countenance  was  i'allen  and  sad ;  the 
great  and  long-cherished  wish  of  his 
heart  had  been  shaken,  and  by  his 
son  ;  and  then  he  had  given  that  son 
bitter  and  angry  words,  and  threatened 
him ;  and  that  son  had  answered  re- 
spectfully, but  firmly  as  iron,  and  the 
old  man's  heart  began  to  sink. 

He  looked  up,  and  there  was  Rob- 
ert, pale  and  stern,  looking  steadfast- 
ly at  him,  with  an  expression-  he 
quite  misunderstood.  Old  Hathorn 
lifted  his  head,  and  said  sharply  and 
bitterly  to  his  son  :  "  Well  ?  " 

"Father,"  said  Robert,  in  a  lan- 
guid voice,  "  I  am  come  to  ask  your 
pardoit" 

Farmer  Hathorn  looked  astonished. 
Robert  went  on. 

"  I  '11  marry  any  woman  you  like, 
father,  —  they  are  all  one  to  me  now." 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Bob  ? 
that  is  too  much  the  other  way." 

"And  if  I  said  anything  to  vex 
yon,  forgive  me,  father,  if  you 
please." 

"  Xo  !  no !  no  !  "  cried  old  Hathorn, 
"  no  more  about  it.  Bob ;  there  was 
no  one  to  blame  but  my  hasty  temper, 
—  no  more  about  it.  Why,  if  the 
poor  chap  hasn't  taken  it  quite  to 
heart,  has  n't  a  morsel  of  color  left  in 
his  cheek !  " 

"  Never  mind  my  looks,"  gasped 
Robert. 

"  And  don't  you  mind  my  words 
either,  then.  Robert,  you  have  made 


me  happier  than  I  have  been  any 
time  this  twenty  years  !  " 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  gasped  Robert. 
"  I  '11  look  to  this,  if  you  have  any- 
thing else  to  do."  He  wanted  to  be 
alone. 

"  Thank  you,  Bob  ;  I  want  to  go 
into  the  village  ;  keep  up  your  heart, 
my  lad.  She  is  the  best-looking  wo- 
man I  know,  with  the  best  heart 
/  ever  met,  and  I  am  older  than  you, 
and  you  sec  the  worst  of  her  the  first 
day  ;  her  good  part  you  are  never  at 
the  bottom  of ;  it  is  just  the  contrary 
with  the  sly  ones.  There,  there  !  I  '11 
say  no  more.  Good  by."  And  away 
went  the  old  farmer,  radiant. 

"  Be  happy,"  sobbed  Robert ;  "  I 
am  glad  there  is  one  happy."  And 
he  sat  down  cold  as  a  stone  in  his  fa- 
ther's place.  After  a  while  he  rose 
and  walked  listlessly  about,  till  at  last 
!  his  feet  took  him  through  habit  into 
his  father's  kitchen ;  on  entering  it, 
his  whole  frame  took  a  st;dden  thrill, 
for  he  found  Rachael  there  tying  up 
her  bundle  for  a  journey.  She  had 
heard  his  step,  and  her  head  was 
turned  away  from  the  door ;  but  near 
her  was  a  small  round  old-fashioned 
mirror,  and,  glancing  into  this,  Rob- 
ert saw  that  tears  were  stealing  down 
her  face. 


.  CHAPTER  IV. 

OLD  Hathorn  paced  down  the  vil- 
lage, with  his  oak  stick,  a  happy  man  ; 
but  for  all  that  he  was  a  little  mysti- 
fied. But  two  hours  ago  Robert  had 
told  him  he  loved  Rachael,  and  had 
asked  his  leave  to  marry  her,  and  in  an- 
swer to  his  angry,  or,  to  speak  more 
correctly,  his  violent  refusal,  had  told 
him  liis  heart  was  bound  up  in  her, 
and  he  would  rather  die  than  marry 
any  other  M'oman.  What  could  have 
worked  such  a  sudden  change  in  the 
young  man's  mind  ?  "  Maybe  I  shall 
find  out,"  was  his  concluding  reflec- 
tion ;  and  he  was  rirrht ;  he  did  find 
out,  and  the  information  came  from 
a  most  unexpected  quarter.  As  he 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


213 


passed  the  village  public-house  he  was 
hailed  from  the  parlor  window ;  he 
looked  up,  and  at  it  was  Farmer  Hick- 
man,  mug  in  hand.  Now,  to  tell  the 
truth,  Hathorn  was  not  averse  to  ale, 
especially  at  another  man's  expense, 
and,  thought  he,  "  Farmer  is  getting 
beery,  looks  pretty  red  in  the  face ; 
however,  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  pump  some- 
thing out  of  him  and  Rose."  So  he 
joined  Hickman ;  and  in  about  half 
an  hour  he  also  was  redder  in  the  face 
than  at  first. 

If  the  wit  is  out  when  the  wine  is 
in,  what  must  it  be  when  the  beer  is  in  ? 

Old  Hathorn  and  Hickman  were 
much  freer  over  their  glass  than  they 
had  ever  been  before,  and  Hathorn 
pumped  Hickman ;  but  inasmuch  as 
Hickman  desired  to  be  pumped,  and 
was  rather  cunninger  half  drunk  than 
sober,  the  old  farmer  drew  out  of  him 
nothing  about  Rose,  but  he  elicited 
an  artful  and  villanous  mixture  of 
truth  and  falsehood  about  Rachael 
Wright ;  it  was  not  a  vague  sketch 
like  that  with  which  he  had  destroyed 
Robert's  happiness;  it  was  a  long, 
circumstantial  history,  full  of  discol- 
ored truths  and  equivokes,  and  embel- 
lished with  one  or  two  good  honest 
lies  ;  but  of  these  there  were  not  many ; 
poor  Richard  could  not  be  honest 
even  in  dealing  with  the  Devil,  —  a 
great  error,  since  that  personage  is 
not  to  be  cheated ;  honesty  is  your 
only  card  in  any  little  transaction  with 
him.  The  symposium  broke  up. 
Hickman's  horse  was  led  round,  he 
mounted,  bade  Hathorn  good  day, 
and  went  of.  In  passing  the  farm 
his  red  face  turned  black,  and  he 
shook  his  fist  at  it,  and  said,  "  Fight 
it  out  now  amongst  ye."  And  the 
poisoner  cantered  away. 

In  leading  Robert  Hathorn  and 
others  so  far,  we  have  shot  ahead  of 
some  little  matters  which  must  not 
be  left  behind,  since  without  them  the 
general  posture  which  things  had 
reached  when  Robert  found  Rachael 
tying  up  her  bundle  could  hardly  be 
understood. 

When  Mrs.  Mayfield  gave  Hickman. 


"  the  sack,"  or,  as  that  coarse  young 
man  called  it,"  the  bag,"  she  was  in. 
a  towering  passion ;  and,  not  being 
an  angel,  but  a  female  with  decided 
virtues  and  abominable  faults,  she 
was  just  now  in  anything  but  a  Chris- 
tian temper,  and  woe  to  all  who  met 
her. 

The  first  adventurer  was  Mr.  Case- 
nower :  he  saw  her  at  a  distance,  for 
she  had  come  out  of  the  house,  in 
which  she  found  she  could  hardly 
breathe,  and  came  towards  her  with. 
a  face  all  wreathed  in  smiles.  Mr. 
Casenower  had  of  late  made  many 
tenders  of  his  affection  to  her,  which 
she  had  parried,  by  positively  refus- 
ing to  see  anything  more  than  a  jest 
in  them;  but  Casenower,  who  was 
perfectly  good-humored  and  light- 
hearted,  had  taken  no  offence  at  this, 
nor  would  he  consider  this  sort  of 
thing  a  refusal ;  in  short,  he  told  her 
plainly  that  it  gave  him  great  pleasure 
to  afford  her  merriment,  even  at  his 
own  expense;  only  he  should  not 
leave  off  hoping  until  she  took  his 
proposal  into  serious  consideration-; 
that  done,  and  his  fate  seriously  pro- 
nounced, he  told  her  she  should  find 
he  was  too  much  of  a  gentleman  not 
to  respect  a  lady's  will ;  only,  when 
the  final  "  No  "  was  pronounced,  he 
should  leave  the  farm,  since  he  could 
not  remain  in  it  and  see  its  brightest 
attraction  given  to  another.  Here  he 
caught  her  on  the  side  of  her  good- 
nature, and  she  replied,  "  Well,  I  am 
not  anybody's  yet."  She  said  to  her- 
self, "  The  poor  soul  seems  happy 
here,  with  his  garden,  and  his  farm 
of  two  acres,  and  his  nonsense,  and 
why  drive  the  silly  goose  away  before 
the  time  ?  "  so  she  suspended  the  final 
"  No,"  and  he  continued  to  offer  ad- 
miration, and  she  to  laugh  at  it. 

It  must  be  owned,  moreover,  that 
she  began  at  times  to  have  a  sort  of 
humorous  terror  of  this  man.  A 
woman  knows  by  experience  that  it  is 
the  fate  of  a  woman  not  to  do  what 
she  would  like,  and  to-do  just  what 
she  would  rather  not,  and  often, 
though  apparently  free,  to  be  fettered 


214 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


by  sundry  cobwebs,  and  driven  into 
some  unwelcome  corner  by  divers 
whips  of  gossamer.  One  day  Mes- 
damcs  Hathorn  and  May  Held  had 
looked  out  of  the  parlor  window  into 
the  garden,  and  there  they  saw  Mr. 
Casenower,  running  wildly  among  the 
beds,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"  What  is  up  now  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Mayficld,  scornfully. 

"I  dare  say  it  is  a  butterfly,"  was 
the  answer ;  "  he  collects  them." 

'  What  a  fool  he  is,  Jane." 
'  He  is  a  good  soul  for  all  that." 
'  Fools  mostly   are,  Jane ! "   said 
Mrs.  Mayfield,  very  solemnly. 
'  Yes,  Rose  !  " 

'  Look  at  that  man  ;  look  at  him 
well,  if  you  please.  Of  all  the  men 
that  pester  me,  that  is  the  one  that  is 
the  most  ridiculous  in  my  eye.  Ha ! 
ha !  the  butterfly  has  got  safe  over  the 
wall,  I  'm  so  glad  !  —  Jane  ! " 

"  Well ! " 

"  You  mark  my  words,  —  I  sha'  n't 
have  the  butterfly's  luck.  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  roan  is  to  be  my  husband  !  — 
that  is  all." 

"  La,  Rose,  how  can  you  talk  so  ! 
you  know  he  is  the  last  man  you 
will  ever  take." 

"  Of  course  he  is,  and  so  he  will  take 
me ;  I  feel  he  will ;  I  can't  bear  the  sight 
of  him,  so  he  is  sure  to  be  the  man. 
You  will  see  !  you  will  see  !  "  and, 
casting  on  her  cousin  a  look  that  was 
a  marvellous  compound  of  fun  and 
bitterness,  she  left  the  room  brusquely, 
with  one  savage  glance  flung  over  her 
shoulder  into  the  garden. 

I  do  not  say  that  such  misgivings 
were  frequent ;  this  was  once  in  a 
way ;  still  it  was  characteristic,  and 
the  reader  is  entitled  to  it. 

Mr.  Casenower  then  came  to  Mrs. 
Mavficld,  and  presented  her  a  clove- 
pink  from  his  garden ;  he  took  off  his 
hat  with  a  flourish,  and  said,  with  an 
innocent,  but  somewhat  silly  playful- 
ness, "  Accept  this,  fair  lady,  in  token 
that  some  day  you  will  accept  the 
grower." 

The  gracious  lady  replied  by  knock- 


ing the  pink  out  of  his  hand  and  say- 
ing, "  That  is  how  I  accept  the  pair." 

Mr.  Casenower  colored  very  high, 
and  the  water  came  into  his  eyes ;  but 
i  Mrs.  Mayfield  turned  her  back  on  him, 
I  and  flounced  into  her  own  house. 
When  there,  she  felt  she  had  been 
harsh,  and  looking  out  of  the  window 
she  saw  poor  Casenower  standing  de- 
jected on  the  spot  where  she  had  left 
him  !  she  saw  him  stoop  and  pick  up 
the  pink ;  he  eyed  it  sorrowfully, 
placed  it  in  his  bosom,  and  then 
moved  droopingly  away. 

"  What  a  brute  I  am  !  "  was  the 
Mayficld's  first  reflection.  "I  hate 
you  !  "  was  the  second. 

So  then,  being  discontented  with 
herself,  she  accumulated  bitterness, 
and  in  this  mood  flounced  into  the  gar- 
den, for  she  saw  Mrs.  Hathorn  there. 
When  she  reached  her,  she  found  that 
her  cousin  was  looking  at  Rachael, 
who  was  cutting  spinach  for  dinner ; 
while  the  old  corporal,  seated  at  some 
little  distance,  watched  his  grand- 
daughter ;  and  as  he  watched  her  his 
dim  eye  lighted  every  now  and  then 
with  affection  and  intelligence. 

Mrs.  Mayfield  did  not  look  at  the 
picture  ;  all  she  saw  was  Rachael ; 
and  after  a  few  trivial  words  she  said. 
to  Mrs.  Hathorn  in  an  undertone,  but 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  Rachael : 
"Are  these  two  going  to  live  with  us 
altogether  ? " 

Mrs.  Hathorn  did  not  answer  ;  she 
colored  and  cast  a  deprecating  look  at 
her  cousin  :  Rachael  rose  from  her 
knees,  and  said  to  Patrick  in  an  un- 
dertone, the  exact  counterpart  of  Mrs. 
Mayfield's  :  "  Grandfather,  we  have 
been  here  long  enough,  come  "  ;  and 
she  led  him  into  the  house. 

There  is  a  dignity  in  silent,  unob- 
trusive sorrow,  and  some  such  dignity 
seemed  to  belong  to  this  village  girl, 
Rachael,  and  to  wait  upon  all  she  said 
I  or  did;  and  this  seemed  to  put  every- 
body in  the  wrong  who  did  or  said 
'  anything  against  her.  When  she  led 
off  her  grandfather  with  those  few 
firm,  sad  words,  in  the  utterance  of 
which  she  betrayed  no  particle  of 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


215 


anger  or  pique,  Mrs.  Hathorn  cast  a 
glance  of  timid  reproach  at  her  cousin, 
and  she  herself  turned  paler  directly  ; 
but  she  replied  to  Mrs.  Hathorn's  look 
only  by  a  disdainful  toss  of  the  head  ; 
and,  not  choosing  to  talk  upon  the  sub- 
ject, she  flounced  in  again  and  shut 
herself  up  in  her  own  parlor ;  there 
she  walked  up  and  down  like  a  little 
hyena.  Presently  she  caught  sight  of 
the  old  farmer,  standing  like  a  statue, 
near  the  very  place  where  Robert  had 
left  him  after  announcing  his  love 
for  Rachael,  and  his  determination  to 
marry  no  other  woman.  At  sight  of 
the  farmer,  an  idea  struck  Mrs.  May- 
field  :  "  That  Ilickman  is  a  liar,  after 
all ;  don't  let  me  be  too  hasty  in  be- 
lieving all  this  about  Robert  and  that 
girl.  I  '11  draw  the  farmer." 

"  I  '1 1  draw  the  farmer ! "  My  refined 
reader  is  looking  to  me  to  explain  the 
lady's  phraseology.  That  which  in 
country  parlance  is  called  "  drawing  " 
is  also  an  art,  O  pencil !  —  men  that 
have  lived  thirty  or  forty  years,  and 
done  business  in  this  wicked  world, 
learn  to  practise  it  at  odd  times.  Wo- 
men have  not  to  wait  for  that ;  it  is 
born  with  most  of  them  an  instinct, 
not  an  art.  It  works  thus  ;  you  sus- 
pect something,  but  you  don't  know  : 
you  catcli  some  one  who  does  know, 
and  you  talk  to  him  as  if  you  knew  all 
about  it.  Then,  if  he  is  not  quite  on 
his  guard,  he  lets  out  what  you  want- 
ed to  know. 

Mrs.  Mayficld*  walked  up  to  Ha- 
thorn with  a  great  appearance  of 
unpremeditated  wrath,  and  said  to 
him :  "  A  fine  fool  you  have  been 
making  of  me,  pretending  your  Rob- 
ert looked  my  way,  when  he  is  over 
head  and  ears  in  love  with  that  Ra- 
chacl ! " 

'?  0,"  cried  the  farmer,  "  what,  the 
fool  has  been  and  told  you  too !  " 

"  So  it  is  true,  then  1  "  cried  the 
Mayliekl,  sharply. 

Machiavel  No.  2  saw  his  mistake 
too  late,  and  tried  to  hark  back. 
"  Xo  !  he  is  not  over  head  and  ears ; 
it  is  all  nonsense  and  folly  ;  it  will 
pass  ;  you  set  your  back  to  mine,  and 


we  will  soon  bring  the  ninny  to  his 
senses." 

"I  back  you  to  force  your  son  my 
way  ! "  cried  Rose,  in  a  fury  ;  "  what 
do  I  care  for  your  son  or  you  cither, 
you  old  fool !  let  him  marry  his 
Rachael !  the  donkey  will  find  wheth- 
er your  mock-modest  ones  are  bet- 
ter or  worse  than  the  frank  ones,  — 
ha!  ha!" 

"  Rose,"  cried  the  farmer,  illumi- 
nated with  sudden  hope ;  "  if  you  know 
anything  against  her,  you  tell  me, 
and  I  '11  tell  Robert." 

"No!  "said  she,  throwing  up  her 
nose  into  the  air  in  a  manner  pretty 
to  behold,  "  I  am  no  scandal-monger, 
—  it  is  your  affair,  not  mine  ;  let  him 
marry  his  Rachael,  ha !  ha !  oh  !  " 
and  off  she  went,  laughing  with  mal- 
ice and  choking  with  vexation. 

There  now  remained  to  insult  only 
Robert  and  Mrs.  Hathorn.  But  the 
virago  was  afraid  to  scold  Mrs.  Ha- 
thorn, who  she  knew  would  burst 
out  crying  at  the  first  hard  word,  and 
then  she  would  have  to  beg  the  poor 
soul's  pardon  :  and  Robert  she  could 
not  find  just  then.  Poor  fellow  !  at 
this  very  moment  he  was  writhing 
under  Hickman's  insinuations,  and 
tearing  his  own  heart  to  pieces  in  his 
efforts  to  tear  Rachael  from  it. 

So  the  Mayfield  ran  up  stairs  to 
her  own  bedroom  and  locked  herself 
in,  for  she  did  not  want  sense,  and 
she  began  to  see  and  feel  that  she  was 
hardly  safe  to  be  about. 

Meantime  Rachael  had  come  to 
take  leave  of  Mrs.  Hathorn ;  that 
good  lady  remonstrated,  but  feebly  ; 
she  felt  that  there  would  never  be 
peace  now  till  the  poor  girl  was  gone  ; 
but  she  insisted  upon  one  thing  ;  the 
old  man  in  his  weak  state  should  not 
go  on  foot. 

"  You  are  free  to  go  or  stay  for  me, 
Rachael,"  said  she,  "  but,  if  you  go, 
I  will  not  have  any  hnrm  come  to  the 
poor  old  man  within  ten  miles  of 
this  door." 

So,  to  get  away,  Rachael  consented 
to  take  a  horse  and  cart  of  the  farm- 
er's, and  this  is  how  it  came  about 


216 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


that  Robert  found  Rachael  tying  up 
her  bundle  of  clothes.  Her  tears 
fell  upon  her  little  bundle  as  she  tied 
it. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ROBERT  HATHORX  had  found  in 
Hickman's  insinuation  a  natural  so- 
lution of  all  that  had  puzzled  him 
in  Rachael.  She  was  the  deserted 
mistress  of  a  man  whom  she  still 
loved,  —  acting  on  this  he  had  apol- 
ogized to  his  father,  had  placed  his 
future  fate  with  heart-sick  indifference 
in  that  father's  hands,  and  had  de- 
spaired of  the  female  sex,  and  re- 
signed all  hope  of  heart-happiness  in 
this  world.  But  all  this  time  Rachael 
had  been  out  of  sight.  She  stood 
now  before  him  in  person,  and  the 
sight  of  her,  beautiful,  retiring,  sub- 
missive, sorrowful,  smote  his  heart 
and  bewildered  his  mind.  Looking 
at  her,  he  could  not  see  the  possibility 
of  this  creature  having  ever  been 
Hickman's  mistress.  He  accused  him- 
self of  having  been  too  hasty;  he 
would  have  given  worlds  to  recall  the 
words  that  had  made  his  father  so 
happy,  and  was  even  on  the  point  of 
leaving  the  kitchen  to  do  so ;  but  on 
second  thoughts  he  determined  to 
try  and  learn  from  Rachael  herself 
whether  there  was  any  truth  in  Hick- 
man's scandal,  and,  if  there  was,  to 
think  of  her  no  more. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  Rachael  ?  " 

"  I  am  tying  up  my  things  to  go, 
Master  Robert" 

"  To  go  ?  " 

"  Yes !  we  have  been  a  burden  to 
your  mother  some  time;  still,  as  I 
did  the  work  of  the  house,  I  thought 
my  grandfather  would  not  be  so  very 
much  in  the  way ;  but  I  got  a  plain 
hint  from  Mrs.  Mayfield  just  now." 

"  Confound  her !  " 

"  No,  sir !  we  are  not  to  forget 
months  of  kindness  for  a  moment  of 
ill-humor.  So  I  am  going,  Mr.  Rob- 
ert, and  now  I  have  only  to  thank 
you  for  all  your  kindness  and  civility. 


We  are  very  grateful,  and  wish  we 
could  make  a  return  ;  but  that  is  not 
in  our  power.  But  grandfather  is  an 
old  man  near  his  grave,  and  he  shall 
pray  for  you  by  name  every  night, 
and  so  will  I ;  so  then,  as  we  are  very 
poor  and  have  no  hopes  but  from 
Heaven,  it  is  to  be  thought  the  Al- 
mighty will  hear  us  and  bless  you 
sleeping  and  waking  for  being  so  good 
to  the  unfortunate." 

Robert  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  a 
moment ;  this  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  spoken  to  him  so  warmly 
and  so  sweetly,  and  at  what  a  moment 
of  dark  suspicion  did  these  words 
come  to  him  !  Robert  recovered  him- 
self, and  said  to  Rachael,  "  Are  you 
sure  that  is  the  real  cause  of  your 
leaving  us  so  sudden  ?  " 

Rachael  looked  perplexed.  "In- 
deed, I  think  so,  Mr.  Robert.  At 
least  I  should  not  have  gone  this  very 
day  but  for  that." 

"  Ah !  but  you  know  very  well  you 
had  made  up  your  mind  to  go  before 
that  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  I  looked  to  go,  some 
day ;  we  don't  belong  here,  grandfa- 
ther and  I." 

"  That  is  not  it,  either.  Rachael, 
there  is  an  ill  report  sprung  up  about 
you." 

"  What  is  that,  sir  ?  "  said  Rachael, 
with  apparent  coldness. 

"  What  is  it  ?  How  can  I  look  in 
your  face  and  say  anvthing  to  wound 
you  1  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Robert.  I  am 
glad  there  is  one  that  is  inclined  to 
show  me  some  respect." 

"  Do  something  for  me  in  return, 
dear  Rachael ;  tell  me  your  story, 
and  I  '11  believe  your  way  of  telling 
it,  and  not  another's  ;  but,  if  you  will 
tell  me  nothing,  what  can  I  do  but 
believe  the  worst,  impossible  as  it 
seems  1  Why  are  you  so  sorrowful  ? 
Why  are  you  so  cold,  like  ?  " 

"I  have  nothing  to  tell  you,  Mr. 
Robert ;  if  any  one  has  maligned  me, 
may  Heaven  forgive  them  ;  it'  you  be- 
lieve them,  forget  me.  I  am  going 
away.  Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind." 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


217 


"  What !  can  a  girl  like  you,  that 
has  won  all  our  respects,  go  away 
and  leave  scandal  behind  her  ?  No  ! 
stay  and  face  it  out,  and  let  us  put  it 
down  forever." 

"  Why  should  I  trouble  myself  to 
do  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  Because,  if  you  do  not,  those  who 
love  you  can  love  you  no  more." 

liachacl  sighed,  but  she  wrapped 
herself  in  her  coldness,  and  replied, 
"But  I  want  no  one  to  love  me. 

"  You  don't  choose  that  any  one 
should  ever  marry  you,  then  1  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Robert,  I  do  not." 

"  You  would  not  answer  Richard 
Hickman  so ! " 

"  Richard  Hickman  !  "  said  Ra- 
chael,  turning  pale. 

When  sh.3  turned  pale,  Robert 
turned  sick. 

"He  says  as  much  as  that  you 
could  not  say  '  No '  to  him." 

"  Richard  Hickmaii  speaks  of  me 
to  you  !  "  cried  Rachael,  opening  her 
eyes  wildly.  Then  in  a  moment  she 
was  ice  again.  "  Well,  I  do  not 
speak  of  him  !  " 

"  Rachael,"  cried  Robert,  "what  is 
all  this  ?  For  Heaven's  sake,  be 
frank  with  me.  Don't  make  me  tear 
the  words  out  of  you  so ;  give  me 
something  to  believe,  or  something  to 
forgive.  I  should  believe  anything 
you  told  me  :  I  am  afraid  I  should 
forgive  anything  you  had  done." 

"I  do  not  ask  you  to  do  either, 
sir." 

"  She  will  drive  me  mad  !  "  cried 
Robert,  frantically.  "  Rachael,  hear 
me.  I  love  you  more  than  a  woman 
was  ever  loved  before  !  You  talk  of 
being  grateful  to  me.  I  don't  know 
why  you  should,  but  you  say  so.  If 
you  are,  be  generous,  be  merciful !  I 
leave  it  to  you.  Be  my  wife !  and 
then,  perhaps,  you  will  not  lock  your 
heart  and  your  stoiy  from  your  hus- 
band. I  cannot  believe  ill  of  you. 
You  may  have  been  maligned,  or  you 
may  have  been  deceived,  but  you  can- 
not be  guilty.  There  !  "  cried  he, 
wildly,  "  no  word  but  one  !  Will 
you  be  my  wife,  Rachael  ?  " 
10 


Rachael  did  not  answer,  at  least  in 
words  ;  she  wept  silently. 

Robert  looked  at  her  despairingly. 
At  last  he  repeated  his  proposal  al- 
most fiercely :  "  I  ask  you,  Rachael, 
will  you  be  my  wife  ?  " 
-  As  he  repeated  this  question,  who 
should  stand  in  the  doorway  but  Mrs. 
Mayfield.  She  was  transfixed,  petri- 
fied, at  these  words  of  Robert ;  but, 
being  a  proud  woman,  her  impulse 
was  to  withdraw  instantly,  and  hear 
no  more.  Ere  she  was  out  of  hear- 
ing, however,  Rachael  replied. 

"  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Robert !  I  must 
refuse  you ! " 

"  You  refuse  to  be  my  wife !  " 
"  I  do,  sir  ! "  but  still  she  wept 
Mrs.  Mayfield,  as  she  retreated, 
heard  the  words,  but  did  not  see  the 
tears.  Robert  saw  the  tears,  but 
could  not  understand  them.  He  gave 
a  hasty,  despairing  gesture,  to  show 
Rachael  that  he  had  no  more  to  say  to 
her,  and  then  he  flung  himself  into  a 
chair,  and  laid  his  brow  on  the  table. 
Rachael  glided  softly  away.  At  the 
door  she  looked  back  on  Robert,  with 
her  eyes  thick  with  tears.  She  had 
hardly  been  gone  a  minute  when  Rose 
Mayfield  returned,  and  came  in  and 
sat  gently  down  opposite  Robert,  and 
watched  him  intently,  with  a  counte- 
nance in  which  the  most  opposite  feel- 
ings might  be  seen  struggling  for  the 
mastery. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ROBERT  lifted  his  head,  and  saw 
Mrs.  Mayfield.  He  spoke  to  her  sul- 
lenly. "  So  you  turn  away  our  ser- 
vants ?  " 

"Not  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Mayfield, 
sharply. 

"  It  is  not  we  that  send  away  Ra- 
chael, it  is  you." 

"  I  tell  you  no ;  do  you  believe  that 
girl  before  me  ?  " 

"  You  affronted  her.  What  had 
she  done  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  only  just  asked  her  how  long 
she  meant  to  stay  here,  or  something 


218 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHIXI 


like  that.  Hang  me  if  I  remember 
what  I  said  to  her !  They  are  a  bad 
breed,  all  these  girls  ;  haughty  and 
spiteful ;  you  can't  say  a  word  but 
they  snap*  your  head  off."  Mrs.  May- 
field  said  no  more,  for  at  that  moment 
Rachael  came  into  the  room  with  her 
grandfather  and  Mrs.  Hathorn,  who 
appeared  to  be  smoothing  matters 
down. 

"  Xo,  Daddy  Patrick,"  said  she,  in 
answer  to  some  observation  of  the  old 
man's,  "  nobody  sends  you  away ; 
you  leave  us  good  friends,  and  you 
are  going  to  drink  a  cup  of  ale  with 
us  before  you  go." 

A  tray  was  then  brought  in  and  a 
jug  of  ale,  and  Patrick  drank  his  mug 
of  ale  slowly ;  but  Rachael  put  hers  to 
her  lips  and  set  it  down  again. 

Then  Robert  went  and  sat  on  the 
window-seat,  and  there  he  saw  them 
bringing  round  the  wagon  to  carry 
away  Rachael  and  her  grandfather. 
His  heart  turned  dead-sick  within 
him.  He  looked  round  for  help,  and 
looking  round  he  saw  Mrs.  Mayfield 
bending  on  liira  a  look  in  which  he 
seemed  to  read  some  compassion, 
blended  with  a  good  deal  of  pique. 
In  his  despair  he  appealed  to  her : 
"  There,  they  are  really  going ;  is  it 
fair  to  send  away  like  that  folk  that 
have  behaved  so  well,  and  were  mind- 
ed to  go  of  themselves  only  mother 
asked  them  to  stay?  See  how  that 
makes  us  look ;  and  you  that  were  al- 
ways so  kind-hearted,  Mrs.  Mayfield. 
Rose,  dear  Rose  '. " 

Mrs.  Mayfield  did  not  answer  Rob- 
ert, whose  appeal  was  made  to  her.  in 
an  undertone ;  but  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Hathorn  :  "  Jane,  the  house  is  yours  ; 
keep  them  if  it  suits  you,  I  am  sure 
it  is  no  business  of  mine." 

"  0,  thank  you,  Rose  !  "  cried  Rob- 
ert ;  but  his  thanks  were  cut  short  by 
the  voice  of  the  elder  Hathorn,  who 
had  just  come  in  from  the  yard. 
"  They  are  going,"  said  he,  "  I  make 
no  complaint  against  them.  There 
is  no  ill-will  on  either  side  ;  but  I 
say  they  ought  to  go,  and  go  they 
shall." 


"  Go  they  shall !  "  said  the  old  cor- 
poral, with  a  mystified  look. 

The  farmer  spoke  with  a  firmness 
and  severity,  and  even  with  a  certain 
dignity ;  and  all  felt  he  was  not  in  a 
mood  to  be  trifled  with. 

Robert  answered  humbly  :  "Fa- 
ther, you  are  master  here,  —  no  one 
gainsays  you  ;  but  you  are  a  just 
man.  If  you  were  to  be  cruel  to  the 
;  poor  and  honest,  you  would  be  sorry 
for  it  all  your  days." 

Before  the  farmer  could  answer, 
Rose  Mayfield  put  in  hastily  :  "  There, 
bid  them  stay,  —  you  see  your  son 
holds  to  the  girl,  and  you  will  have 
to  marry  them  one  day  or  other,  and 
so  best,  —  that  will  put  an  end  to  all 
the  nonsense  they  talk  about  the  boy 
and  me.  I  dare  say  Robert  is  fool 
enough  to  think  I  wanted  him  for 


"  I,  Mrs.  Mayfield  ?  never.  What 
makes  you  fancy  that  ?  " 

"  And,"  cried  Mrs.  Mayfield,  as  if 
|  a  sudden  light  broke  in  upon  her, 
l  "  what  are  we  all  doing  here  ?  we 
can't  help  folks'  hearts.  Robert  loves 
her.  Are  we  to  persecute  Robert, 
an  innocent  lad,  that  never  offended 
one  of  us,  and  has  been  a  good  son 
to  you,  and  a  good  friend  and  brother 
to  me  ever  since  we  could  walk  ?  I 
i  think  the  Devil  must  have  got  into 
my  heart ;  but  I  >hall  turn  him  out, 
whether  he  likes  or  no.  I  say  he  shall 
have  the  girl,  old  man ;  and,  more 
than  that,  I  have  got  a  thousand 
pounds  loose  in  Wallingford  Bank ; 
they  shall  have  it  to  stock  a  farm  ; 
it  is  little  enough  to  give  Robert, — 
I  owe  him  more  than  that  for  Ux- 
moor,  let  alone  years  of  love  and 
good-will.  There  now,  he  is  going 
to  cry,  I  suppose.  Bob,  don't  cry, 
for  Heaven's  sake;  I  can't  abide  to 
see  a  man  cry." 

"  It  is  you  make  me,  Rose,  prais- 
ing me  just  when  everybody  seemed 
to  turn  against  me." 

"  You  are  crying  yourself,  Rose," 
whimpered  Mrs.  Hathorn. 

"  If  I  am,  I  don't  feel  it,"  replied 
Mrs.  Mayfield. 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


219 


Rachael  trembled ;  but  she  said  in 
her  low,  firm  voice :  "  We  are  going 
away  of  our  own  accord,  Mistress 
Mayfield,  and  we  thank  you  kindly 
for  this,  and  for  all,  —  but  we  are 
going  away." 

"  You  don't  love  Robert,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  Mrs.  Mayfield,"  said  Ra- 
chael,  with  the  air  of  one  confessing 
theft  or  sacrilege,  "  I  don't  love  Mr. 
Robert !  "  and  she  lowered  her  eyes 
with  their  long  lashes,  and  awaited 
her  sentence. 

"  Tell  that  to  the  men,"  replied 
Rose,  "  you  can't  draw  the  wool  over 
a  sister's  eye,  young  lady." 

"  The  young  woman  is  the  only 
one  among  you  that  has  a  grain  of 
sense,"  said  old  Hathorn,  roughly. 
"  Why  don't  you  let  her  alone,  —  she 
would  thank  you  for  it." 

"  Can  you  read  a  woman's  words, 
you  old  ass  ?  "  was  the  contemptuous 
answer. 

"  I  am  not  an  ass,  young  woman," 
said  Hathorn,  gravely  and  sternly, 
"  and  I  am  in  my  own  house,  which 
you  seem  to  forget," — Rose  colored 
up  to  the  eyes,  — "  and  I  am  the 
master  of  it,  so  long  as  it  is  your 
pleasure  I  should  be  here." 

"  John  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Hathorn,  with 
a  deprecating  air. 

"  And  I  am  that  young  man's  fa- 
ther, and  it  is  his  duty  to  listen  to 
me,  and  mine  not  to  let  him  make 
a  fool  of  himself.  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  so  particular  as  Robert  is,  — 
used  to  be,  I  mean,  —  and  I  was  tell- 
ing him  only  yesterday,  that  suppose 
you  have  kicked  over  the  traces  a 
bit,  as  you  have  never  broken  your 
knees,  leastways  to  our  knowledge, 
Rose,  it  did  not  much  matter." 

"  Thank  you,  Daddy  Hathorn  ; 
much  obliged  to  you,  I  am  sure." 

"  But  there 's  reason  in  roasting  of 
eggs  ;  this  one  has  been  oft'  the 
course  altogether,  and  therefore,  I  say 
again,  she  shows  sense  by  going  home, 
and  you  show  no  sense  by  trying  to 
keep  her  here." 

"  Father,"  said  Robert,  "  you  go  too 
far  ;  we  know  nothing  against  Ra- 


chael,  and  till  I  know  I  won't  believe 
anything." 

"Why,  Bob,  I  thought  Hickman 
had  told  you  all  about  it,  —  I  under- 
stood him  so,  —  ay,  and  he  must  too, 
or  why  did  you  come  to  me  in  the 
yard  and  cat  humble  pie  1 " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by 
telling  me  all  about  it,  father :  he  hint- 
ed as  much  as  that  he  and  Rachael 
had  been  too  familiar  once  upon  a 
time." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well !  how  often  has  he  told  the 
same  lie  of  a  dozen  others  .*  that  is  a 
common  trick  of  Dick  Hickman's,  to 
pretend  he  has  been  thick  with  a  girl, 
that  perhaps  does  not  know  his  face 
from  Adam's.  Father,  I  can't  believe 
a  known  liar's  tongue  against  such 
a  face  as  that." 

"  Face  as  that  I  It  is  a  comely  one, 
but  seems  to  me  it  does  not  look  us 
so  very  straight  in  the  face  just  now : 
and  there  's  more  than  a  liar's  tongue 
on  t'other  side,  there  's  chapter  and 
verse,  as  the  saying  is." 

"I  don't  understand  your  hints, 
and  I  don't  believe  that  blackguard's. 
I  am  not  so  old  as  you,  but  I  have 
learned  that  truth  does  not  lie  in 
hints." 

"  I  'm  older  than  you,  and  a  wo- 
man's face  can't  make  me  blind  and 
deaf  to  better  witnesses." 

"  There  are  no  better  witnesses ! 
For  shame,  father !  Hickman  is  no 
authority  with  Hathorn." 

"  But  the  Parish  Register  is  an  au- 
thority," said  the  old  man  sternly, 
and  losing  all  his  patience. 

"  The  Parish  Register !  " 

"And  if  you  look  at  the  Parish 
Register  of  Long  Compton,  you  will 
find  the  name  of  a  child  she  is  the 
mother  of,  and  no  father  to  show." 


"  Father ! " 

"Ask  herself!  —  you  see  she  does 
n't  deny  it." 

All  eyes  turned  and  fastened  upon 
Rachael ;  and  those  who  saw  her  at 
this  moment  will  carry  her  face  and 


220 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


her  look  to  their  graves,  so  fearful 
was  the  anguish  of  a  high  spirit, 
ground  into  the  dust  and  shame ;  her 
body  seemed  that  moment  to  be 
pierced  with  a  hundred  poisoned  ar- 
rows. She  rose  white  to  her  very 
lips,  and  stood  in  the  midst  of  them 
quivering  like  an  aspen-leaf,  her  eyes 
preternaturally  bright  and  large,  and 
she  took  one  uncertain  step  forwards, 
as  if  to  fling  herself  on  the  weapons 
of  scorn  that  seemed  to  hem  her  in ; 
and  she  opened  her  mouth  to  speak, 
but  her  open  lips  trembled,  and  trem- 
bled, and  no  sound  came.  And  all 
the  hearts  round,  even  the  old  farm- 
er's, began  now  to  freeze  and  fear 
at  the  sight  of  this  wild  agony ;  and 
at  last,  after  many  efforts,  the  poor 
soul  would  have  said  something,  God 
knows  what,  but  a  sudden  and  most 
unexpected  interruption  came.  Cor- 
poral Patrick  was  by  her  side,  nobody 
saw  how ;  and,  seizing  her  firmly  by 
the  arm,  he  forbade  her  to  speak. 

"  Silence,  girl ! "  cried  the  old  sol- 
dier, fiercely.  "  I  dare  you  to  say  a 
word  to  any  of  them  !  " 

Then  Rachael  turned  and  clung 
convulsively  to  his  shoulder,  and 
trembled  and  writhed  there  in  silence. 
All  this  while  they  had  not  observed 
the  old  man,  or  they  would  have  seen 
that  the  mist  had  gradually  cleared 
away  from  his  faculties ;  his  mind, 
brightened  by  his  deep  love  for  Ra- 
chael, was  keenly  awake  to  all  that 
concerned  her ;  and  so  her  old  cham- 
pion stood  in  a  moment  by  her  side 
with  scarce  a  sign  left  of  age  or  weak- 
ness, upright  and  firm  as  a  tower. 

"  Silence,  girl !  I  dare  you  to  say  a 
word  to  any  of  them !  " 

"  There,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Hathorn, 
"  you  thought  the  poor  old  man  was 
past  understanding,  and  now  you 
make  him  drink  the  bitter  cup,  as 
well  as  her." 

"  Yes !  I  must  drink  my  cup  too," 
said  old  Patrick.  "  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  die  soon,  and  to  die  in  peace  ; 
but  I  '11  live  and  be  young  again,  if  it 
is  but  to  tell  ye  ye  are  a  pack  of  curs. 
The  Parish  Register !  does  the  Parish 


Register  tell  you  the  man  married 
her  with  a  wife  living  in  another  part  ? 
Is  it  wrote  down  along  with  that 
child's  name  in  the  Parish  Register, 
how  his  father  fell  on  his  knees  to  his 
mother,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  and 
Ix-j^ri'd,  for  the  dear  life,  she  would  n't 
take  the  law  of  him  and  banish  him 
the  country  ?  What  was  she  to  think  ? 
could  she  think  that,  when  his  sick 
wife  died,  he  'd  reward  her  for  spar- 
ing him  by  flying  the  country,  not  to 
do  her  right  ?  The  Parish  Register ! 
You  welcome  this  scoundrel  to  your 
house,  and  you  hunt  his  victim  out 
like  a  vagabond,  ye  d — d  hypocrites ! 
Come,  Rachael,  let  us  crawl  away 
home,  and  die  in  peace." 

"  No  !  no  !  you  must  not  go  like 
that,"  cried  Mrs.  Hathorn,  and  Rob- 
ert rose,  and  was  coming  to  take  his 
hand ;  but  he  waved  his  staff  furious- 
ly over  his  head. 

"  Keep  aloof,  I  bid  ye  all,"  he  cried ; 
"  I  have  fought  against  Bonaparte, 
and  I  despise  small  blackguards." 
He  seized  Rachael  and  drew  her  to  the 
door :  then  he  came  back  at  them 
again  :  "  'T  is  n't  guilt  you  have 
punished ;  you  have  insulted  inno- 
cence and  hard  fortune ;  you  have  in- 
sulted your  own  mothers,  for  you 
have  insulted  me,  and  I  fought  for 
them  before  the  best  and  oldest  of  you 
was  born,  —  no  skulking  before  the  en- 
emy, girl,"  —  for  Rachael  was  droop- 
ing and  trembling,  —  "  right  shoul- 
ders forward,  MARCH  !  "  and  he  almost 
tore  her  out  of  the  house.  He  was 
great,  and  thundering,  and  terrible,  in 
this  moment  of  fury;  he  seemed  a 
giant  and  the  rest  but  two  feet  high. 
His  white  hair  streamed,  and  his  eyes 
blazed  defiance  and  scorn.  He  was 
great  and  terrible  by  his  passion  and 
his  age,  and  his  confused  sense  of  past 
battles  and  present  insult.  They  fol- 
lowed him  out  almost  on  tiptoe.  He 
lifted  Rachael  into  the  wagon,  placed 
her  carefully  on  a  truss  of  hay  in  the 
wagon,  and  the  carter  came  to  the 
'  horses'  heads,  and  looked  to  the  house 
j  to  know  whether  he  was  to  start  now. 

Robert  came  out  and  went  to  Ra- 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


221 


chad's  side  of  the  wagon,  but  she 
turned  her  head  away. 

"  Won't  you  speak  to  me,  Ra- 
chael  ?  "  said  Robert. 

Rachael  turned  her  head  away,  and 
was  silent. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Robert  quietly, 
very  quietly. 

"  Go  on,"  cried  old  Hathorn. 

The  next  moment  there  was  a  fear- 
ful scream  from  the  women,  and  Rob- 
ert was  seen  down  among  the  horses' 
feet,  and  the  carter  was  forcing  them 
back,  or  the  wagon  would  have  been 
over  him ;  the  carter  dragged  him  up, 
—  he  was  not  hurt,  but  very  pale ;  he 
told  his  mother,  who  came  running 
to  him,  that  he  had  felt  suddenly  faint 
ami  had  fallen,  and  he  gave  a  sickly 
smile,  and  bade  her  not  be  frightened, 
he  was  better. 

Rose  Mayfield  was  as  white  as  a 
sheet. 

"  Go  on,"  cried  the  farmer,  again, 
and  at  a  word  from  the  carter  the 
horses  drew  the  wagon  out  of  the 
yard,  and  went  away  down  the  lane 
with  Rachael  and  Patrick. 

They  were  gone. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CORPORAL  PATRICK  was  correct  in 
his  details ;  the  Parish  Register  gave 
a  very  vague  outline  of  Rachael 
Wright's  history.  Mr.  Hickman  had 
gone  through  the  ceremony  of  marry- 
ing her;  nay,  more,  at  the  time,  he 
had  firmly  intended  the  ceremony 
should  be  binding,  for  his  wife  lay  dy- 
ing a  hundred  miles  off,  and  Rachael 
had  at  this  period  great  expectations 
from  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Clayton.  This 
Mrs.  Clayton  was  the  possessor  of 
Bix  Farm.  She  was  a  queer-tem- 
pered woman,  and  a  severe  economist  ; 
this  did  not  prevent  her  allowing  Pat- 
rick and  Rachael  a  yearly  sum,  which 
helped  to  maintain  them  in  homely 
comfort.  And  she  used  to  throw  out 
mysterious  hints  that,  at  her  death, 
the  pair  would  be  better  off  than  other 


relations  of  hers  who  dressed  finer 
and  held  their  heads  higher  at  present. 
Unfortunately  for  Rachael,  this  aunt 
was  alive  at  the  period  when  Hick- 
man's  bigamy  was  discovered  by  old 
Patrick.  The  said  aunt  had  never 
done  anything  of  the  kind  herself, 
nobody  had  ever  married  her  illegally, 
and  she  could  not  conceive  how  such 
a  thing  could  take  place  without  the 
woman  being  in  fault  as  well  as  the 
man ;  so  she  was  very  cross  about  it, 
and  discontinued  her  good  offices. 
The  Corporal  wished  to  apply  the 
law  at  once  to  Hickman  ;  but  he 
found  means  to  disarm  Rachael,  and 
Rachael  disarmed  the  old  soldier. 
Rachael,  young,  inexperienced,  and 
honest,  was  easily  induced  to  believe 
in  Hickman's  penitence,  and  she  never 
doubted  that,  upon  his  wife's  death, 
who  was  known  to  be  incurably  ill, 
Richard  would  do  her  ample  right. 
So  meantime  she  agreed  to  do  herself 
injustice. 

Mrs.  Hickman  died  within  a  short 
time  of  the  exposure ;  but,  unfortu- 
nately for  Rachael,  another  person 
died  a  week  or  two  before  her,  and 
that  person  was  Rachael's  aunt.  No 
will  appeared,  except  an  old  one, 
which  was  duly  cancelled  by  the  old 
lady  herself,  in  the  following  man- 
ner :  First,  all  the  words  were  inked 
out  with  a  pen ;  secondly,  most  of 
them  were  scratched  out  with  a  knife ; 
lastly,  a  formal  document  was  affixed 
and  witnessed,  rendering  the  said  in- 
strument null  as  well  as  illegi- 
ble. This  unfortunate  testament  be- 
queathed Bix  Farm  to  Jack  White, 
her  graceless  nephew.  He  had  of- 
fended her  after  the  will  was  made,  so 
she  annulled  the  will.  The  graceless 
nephew  could  afford  to  smile  at  these 
evidences  of  wrath  ;  he  happened  to 
be  her  heir-at-law,  and  succeeded  to 
Bix  in  the  absence  of  all  testament  to 
the  contrary.  Hickman  was  with  his 
dying  wife  in  Somersetshire.  The 
news  about  Bix  reached  him,  and  he 
secretly  resolved  to  have  nothing  more 
to  do  with  Rachael.  To  carry  out 
this  with  more  security,  the  wretch 


222 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


wrote  her  affectionate  letters  from 
time  to  time,  giving  plausible  excuses 
for  remaining  in  Somersetshire  ;  and 
so  he  carried  on  the  game  for  three 
months  after  his  wife  was  dead  ;  he 
then  quietly  dropped  the  mask  and 
wrote  no  more. 

So  matters  went  on  for  some  years, 
until  one  day  the  graceless  nephew, 
finding'work  a  bore,  announced  Bix 
Farm  to  let.  Poor  Hickman  had  set 
his  heart  upon  this  Bix,  and,  as  he 
could  not  have  it  for  his  own,  he 
thought  he  should  like  to  rent  it ;  so 
he  came  up  and  made  his  offer,  and 
was  accepted  as  tenant.  The  rest  the 
reader  knows,  I  believe;  but  what 
iron  passed  through  the  hearts  of  Ra- 
chael  and  the  old  soldier  all  this  time, 
that  let  me  hope  he  knows  not. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  events  we  have  recorded  had 
no  sooner  taken  place,  than  a  great 
change  seemed  to  come  over  Mrs. 
Mayfield.  She  went  about  her  avo- 
cations as  usual,  but  not  with  the 
same  alacrity ;  and  her  spirits  were 
so  unstrung,  that  every  now  and  then 
she  burst  into  tears.  The  female  ser- 
vants, honest  country  wenches  that 
were  not  sublimely  indifferent,  like 
London  domestics,  to  everybody  in 
the  house  but  themselves,  seeing  the 
gloom  of  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Mayfield 
continually  crying  who  never  cried 
before,  began  to  whimper  for  sympa- 
thy, and  the  house  was  a  changed 
house.  Robert  had  disappeared ;  and 
they  all  felt  it  was  a  charity  not  to 
ask  where,  or  to  go  near  him  for  a 
while  :  all  but  the  mother,  who  could 
not  resist  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's 
nature;  she  crept  silently  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  watched  her  boy,  lest  per- 
chance evil  should  befall  him. 

Mrs.  Mayfield  then,  after  many  ef- 
forts to  go  through  her  usual  duties, 
gave  way  altogether,  and  sat  herself 
down  in  her  own  parlor,  and  cried 


over  all  the  sorrow  that  had  come  on 
the  farm  ;  and  as  all  generous  natures 
do,  if  you  give  them  time  to  think,  >he 
blamed  herself  more  than  any  one  else, 
and  wished  herself  dead  and  out  of  the 
way,  if  by  that  means  the  rest  could 
only  be  made  happy  as  they  used  to  be. 
While  she  was  in  this  mood,  her  head 
buried  in  her  hands,  she  heard  a  slight 
noise,  and,  looking  up,  saw  a  sorrow- 
ful face  at  the  door :  it  was  Mr. 
Casenower. 

"  I  am  come  to  bid  you  good  by, 
Mrs.  Mayfield." 

"  Come  to  bid  me  good  by  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  all  my  things  are  packed  up 
except  this,  which  I  hope  you  will  do 
me  the  favor  to  accept,  since  I  am 
going  away,  and  shall  never  tease  you 
again." 

"  You  never  teased  me,  that  I 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Mayfield,  very 
gently.  "  What  is  it,  sir  1  " 

"  It  is  my  collection  of  birds'  eggs : 
will  you  look  at  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  AVhy,  here  are  a  hundred 
different  sorts,  and  no  two  kinds 
alike." 

"  No  two  kinds  ?  I  should  think  not. 
No  two  eggs,  you  mean." 

"  How  beautiful  they  look  when  you 
see  them  in  such  numbers  ! " 

"They  are  beautiful.  Nature  is 
very  skilful ;  we  don't  take  half  as 
many  hints  from  her  as  we  might. 
Do  you  observe  these  eggs  all  of  one 
color,  —  these  delicate  blues,  these  ex- 
quisite drabs  ?  If  you  ever-  wish  to 
paint  a  room,  take  one  of  these  eggs 
for  a  model,  and  you  will  arrive  at 
such  tints  as  no  painter  ever  imagined 
out  of  his  own  head,  I  know.  I  once 
hoped  we  should  make  these  experi- 
ments together  ;  but  it  was  not  to  be. 
Good  by,  dear  Mrs.  Mayfield ! " 

"  O  Mr.  Casenower !  1  did  not  think 
you  came  to  quarrel  with  me." 

"  Heaven  forbid !  But  you  love 
somebody  else." 

"  No  :  I  don't." 

"  Yes  :  yon  know  you  do ;  and  you 
rejected  me  this  morning." 

"I  remember  I  was  rude  to  you, 
sir;  I  knocked  a  flower  out  of  your 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


223 


hand.    Does  that  rankle  in  your  heart 
so  long  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Mayfield,  it  is  for  your  sake 
I  am  going,  not  out  of  anger;  you 
know  that  very  well." 

"  I  know  no  such  thing,  it  is  out  of 
spite,  and  a  pretty  time  to  show  your 
spite,  when  my  heart  is  breaking.  If 
you  went  to  please  me,  you  would 
wait  till  I  bid  you  go." 

"  You  don't  bid  me  go,  then  ?  " 

"It  does  n't  seem  like.it." 

"  You  bid  me  stay  ?  " 

"  Not  I,  sir.  Don 't  let  me  keep  yon 
here  against  your  will." 

"  But  it  is  not  against  my  will ;  only 
you  seemed  to  hate  me  this  morning. 

"  What  signifies  what  I  did  this 
morning  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Mayfield, 
sharply ;  "  it  is  afternoon  now.  This 
morning  they  put  me  out ;  I  wanted 
somebody  to  quarrel  with ;  you  came 
in  my  way,  so  I  quarrelled  with  you. 
Now  I  have  made  you  all  unhappy,  so 
I  am  miserable  myself,  as  I  deserve ; 
and  now  I  want  somebody  to  comfort 
me,  and  you  come  to  me :  but,  instead 
of  comforting  me,  all  you  can  think  of 
is  to  quarrel  with  me,  — oh !  oh  !  oh  !  " 
This  speech  was  followed  by  a  flood 
of  tears. 

Casenower  drew  his  chair  close  to 
hers,  and  took  her  hand,  and  promised 
to  console  her,  —  to  die  for  her,  if 
necessary. 

"  Tell  me  your  trouble,"  said  he, 
"and  you  shall  see  how  soon  I  will  cure 
it,  if  a  friend  can  cure  it.  Mrs.  May- 
field,  —  Rose,  —  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Dear  Mr.  Casenower,  Robert  is  in 
love  with  that  Rachael,  —  the  farmer 
has  insulted  her,  and  sent  hej*  and  her 
grandfather  away,  —  Robert  is  break- 
ing his  heart ;  —  and  all  this  began 
with  a  word  of  mine,  though  that 
blackguard  Hickman  is  more  to  blame 
still.  But  I  am  a  woman  that  likes  to 
make  people  happy  about  me ;  I  may 
say  I  live  for  that  ;  and  now  they  are 
all  unhappy  :  and  if  I  knew  where  to 
find  a  dose  of  poison  I  would  not  be 
long  before  I  would  take  it  this  day. 
I  can  't  bear  to  make  people  unhappy, 
— oh!  oh!  oh!" 


"Don't  cry,  dearest,"  said  Case- 
nower ;  "  you  shall  have  your  wish ; 
you  shall  make  everybody  happy  ! " 

"  O  no,  no !  that  is  impossible 
now."  . 

"  No  such. thing,  —  there  is  no  mis- 
chief that  can't  be  cured.  Look  here, 
Rose,  the  old  farmer  is  very  fond  of 
money ;  Rachael  is  poor ;  well,  I  am, 
rich.  I  will  soon  find  Robert  a 
thousand  pounds  or  two,  and  he  shall 
have  the  girl  he  likes." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Casenower,  if  money 
could  do  it  I  should  have  settled  it 
that  way  myself.  O,  what  a  good 
creature  you  are !  I  love  you,  —  no, 
I  don't,  I  hate  you,  because  I  see 
how  all  this  is  to  end.  No,  no  !  we 
have  insulted  the  poor  things  and 
set  their  hearts  against  us,  and  we 
have  set  poor  Robert  against  the 
girl,  who  is  worth  the  whole  pack  of 
us  twice  counted.  They  are  gone, 
and  the  old  man's  curse  hangs  like 
lead  upon  the  house  and  all  in  it." 

"  Where  are  they  gone  1  " 

"Newbury  way." 

"  How  long  ?  " 

"  An  hour  and  a  half." 

"  In  two  hours  I  '11  have  tnem 
back  here." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool  now,  talking 
nonsense." 

"  Will  you  lend  me  your  mare  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  no  !  The  old  farmer  would 
kill  us." 

"  Hang  the  old  farmer !  Who 
cares  for  him  ?  Is  this  your  house 
or  his  ?  " 

"  Mine,  to  be  sure"." 

"  Then  I  shall  bring  them  to  this 
house." 

"  Yes,  but  —  but  —  " 

"  You  have  a  right  to  do  what  you 
like  in  your  own  house,  I  suppose. 
Why,  how  scared  you  look !  Where 
is  all  your  spirit  ?  You  have  plenty 
of  it  sometimes." 

"Dear  Mr.  Casenower,  don't  tell 
anybody,  I  have  not  a  grain  of  real 
spirit.  I  am  the  most  chicken-hearted 
creature  in  the  world,  only  I  hide  it 
when  I  fall  in  with  other  cowards, 
and  so  then  I  can  bully  them,  you 


224 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


know.  I  have  hectored  it  over  you 
more  than  once,  and  so  I  would 
again  ;  but  it  would  be  a  sharne,  you 
are  so  good, —  and  besides  you  have 
found  me  out." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  afraid  of  any- 
body, if  I  can  please  you.  I  will 
ride  after  them  and  fetch  them  here, 
and,  if  you  are  afraid  to  give  them 
house-room,  I  will  hire  that  empty 
house  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  and  this 
very  night  they  shall  be  seated  in  a 
good  house,  by  a  good  fire,  before  a 
good  supper,  within  fifty  yards  of 
your  door." 

"  Let  me  go  with  you.  You  don't 
know  the  way." 

"  Thank  you,  I  should  be  sure  to 
lose  the  way  by  myself ;  go  and  get 
your  habit  on.  Lose  no  time.  I  will 
saddle  the  horses." 

"  How  a  man  takes  the  command 
of  us,"  thought  Mrs.  Mayfield.  "  I 
shall  have  to  marry  you  for  this,  I 
suppose,"  said  she,  gayly,  shining 
through  her  late  tears. 

"  Not  unless  you  like,"  said  Case- 
nower,  proudly.  "  I  don't  want  to 
entrap  you,  or  take  any  woman 
against  her  will." 

The  Mayfield  colored  up  to  her 
eyes. 

"  Yon  had  better  knock  me  down," 
said  she.  "  I  know  you  would  like 
to  "  ;  and,  casting  on  her  companion 
a  glance  of  undisguised  admiration, 
she  darted  up  stairs  for  her  habit. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  was  in  the 
saddle,  and,  giving  her  mare  the  rein, 
she  went  after  our  poor  travellers 
like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

Casenower  followed  as  he  might. 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

IT  was  a  glorious  evening :  the 
sun,  gigantic  and  red,  had  just  be- 
gun to  tip  the  clouds  with  gold,  and 
rubies,  and  promises  of  a  fine  day 
to-morrow  ;  the  farm  was  quiet ;  the 
farmer's  homely  supper  was  set  on  a 
table  outside  the  door,  and  he  and 


his  wife  sat  opposite  each  other  in 
silence. 

Mrs.  Hathorn  helped  herself  to  a 
morsel ;  but  she  did  not  care  to  eat 
it,  and,  in  fact,  she  only  helped  her- 
self to  encourage  her  husband  to  eat. 
She  did  not  succeed ;  Farmer  Ha- 
thorn remained  in  a  brown  study,  his 
supper  untasted  before  him. 

"  Eat  your  supper,  husband." 

"  Thank  you,  wife  ;  I  am  not  hun- 
gry-" 

"  Take  a  drop  of  beer,  then." 

"  No,  Jane,  I  am  not  dry." 

"  You  are  ill,  then,  John  ;  you 
don't  look  well." 

"  I  'm  well  enough,  I  tell  you." 

"  You  are  in  trouble,  like  many 
more  in  this  house." 

"  Me  ?  No ;  I  never  was  happier 
in  my  life !  " 

"  Indeed !  What  is  there  to  be 
happy  about  ?  " 

"  Come,  now,  what  is  it  1 "  cried  the 
farmer,  angrily.  "  Out  with  it,  and 
don't  sit  looking  at  me  with  eyes  like 
an  adder's." 

"  My  man,  you  see  your  conscience 
in  your  wife's  eyes;  that  is  all  the 
venom  they  have.'1 

"  You  had  better  tell  me  Robert  is 
in  his  senses  to  love  that  girl.  I 
would  cut  my  arm  off  at  the  shoulder 
sooner  than  consent  to  it." 

"  Would  you  cut  your  son  off  soon- 
er ?  "  said  Mrs.  Hathorn,  with  forced 
calmness. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  take  very  little  notice  of  what 
passes,  John." 

"  What  do  yon  mean  ?  " 

"  Did  n't  you  see  what  Robert  tried 
for  when  the  wagon  started  with 
them  ? " 

"  0,  about  his  fainting  !  I  could 
have  kicked  the  silly  fool  if  I  had  n't 
been  his  father." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  is  very  odd  ho 
should  faint  like  that,  —just  under 
the  wheel  of  a  wagon  ?  " 

"  O,  when  a  chap  swoons  away,  he 
can't  choose  the  bed  he  falls  on." 

"  A  moment  more,  the  wheel  would 
have  been  on  his  head;  if  Thomas 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


225 


had  n't  been  lightsome   and  stopped 
the  horses  all  in   a  minute,    Robert 
Hathorn  would  have  been  a  corpse  in 
this  house." 
•     "  Well !  " 

"  Well ! " 

The  old  man  lowered  his  voice : 
"  You  had  better  tell  me  you  think  he 
did  it  on  purpose  ! " 

Mrs.  Hathorn  leaned  over  the  table 
to  him. 

"  I  don't  think  it,  John  ;  I  am  sure 
of  it.  Robert  never  fainted  at  all ;  he 
was  as  white  as  his  shirt,  but  he  knew 
what  he  was  about,  from  first  to  last. 
He  chose  his  time  ;  and  when  Rachael 
turned  her  head  from  him,  he  just 
said,  '  Very  well  then,'  and  flung  him- 
self under  the  wheel.  What  did  Thom- 
as say,  who  dragged  him  up  from  the 
horses'  feet  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know/'  said  old  Hathorn, 
half  sulkily,  hp.lf  trembling. 

"  He  said,  '  That  is  flying  in  the 
face  of  Heaven,  young  master.' 
Jane  heard  him  say  it;  and  you 
know  Thomas  is  a  man  that  speaks 
but  little.  What  did  Rose  Mayfield 
say,  as  she  passed  him  next  minute  1 
'  Would  you  kill  your  mother,  Rob- 
ert, and  break  all  our  hearts  ? '  You 
cried  out,  '  Go  on,  —  goon.'  Robert 
said  his  foot  had  slipped  ;  and  made 
as  though  he  would  smile  at  me.  Ah ! 
what  a  smile,  John !  If  you  had  been 
as  near  it  as  I  was,  you  wouldn't 
sleep  this  night."  And  Mrs.  Hathorn 
began  to  sob  violently,  and  rocked 
herself  to  and  fro. 

"  Then  send  for  them  back,"  cried 
the  farmer,  suddenly  starting  up. 
"  Send,  before  worse  ill  comes,  — con- 
found them !  " 

"  They  will  never  come  back  here. 
They  are  poor,  but  honest  and  proud ; 
and  we  have  stung  them  too  bitterly, 
reproaching  them  with  their  hard 
lot." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  In  the  barn  ;  with  his  face  buried 
in  the  straw,  like  one  who  would  n't 
speak,  or  see,  or  hear  the  world 
again." 

"  perhaps  he  is  asleep  ?  " 
10* 


"  No,  he  is  not  asleep." 

"  Give  him  time ;  he  '11  come  to 
when  he  has  cried  his  bellyful." 

"  He  shed  tears  1  0  no  !  it  is  too 
deep  for  that ;  he  will  die  by  his  own 
hand,  or  fret  to  death.  He  won't  be 
long  here,  I  doubt :  look  for  dark 
days,  old  man  !  " 

"  Wife,"  said  Hathorn,  trembling, 
"  you  arc  very  hard  upon  me :  to  hear 
you,  one  would  say  I  am  a  bad  father, 
and  am  killing  my  son." 

"No,  —  no, — John!  But  we  were 
too  ambitious,  and  we  have  humbled 
the  poor  and  the  afflicted ;  and  Heav- 
en does  not  bless  them  that  do  so,  and 
never  will." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  Jane." 

"  No  more  do  I,  except  pray  to 
God :  that  is  my  resource  in  dangers 
and  troubles." 

"  Ay !  ay !  that  can  do  no  harm  any 
way." 

While  the  old  couple  sat  there,  with 
gloomy  and  foreboding  hearts,  sud- 
denly a  cheerful  cry  burst  upon  their 
ears.  It  was  Mrs.  Mayfield's  voice; 
she  came  cantering  up  the  lane  with 
Mr.  Casenower:  she  dismounted, 
flung  him  the  bridle,  and  ran  into  her 
own  house,  where  she  busied  herself 
in  giving  orders,  and  preparing  two 
rooms  for  some  expected  visitors. 
A  few  minutes  more,  and,  to  the  as- 
tonishment of  Hathorn  and  delight 
of  his  wife,  the  wagon  hove  in  sight 
with  Rachael  and  Patrick. 

They  descended  from  the  wagon, 
and  were  led  by  Mr.  Casenower  into 
Mrs.  Mayfield's  house,  and  there,  after 
all  this  day's  fatigues  and  sorrows, 
they  found  a  welcome  and  bodily  re- 
pose. But  Rachael  showed  great 
uneasiness ;  she  had  been  very  reluc- 
tant to  return ;  but  Mrs.  Mayfield 
had  begged  them  both  so  hard,  with 
the  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  Patrick  had 
shown  so  strong  a  wish  to  come  back, 
that  she  had  yielded  a  passive  con- 
sent. When  the  news  of  their  return 
was  brought  to  Robert  by  his  mother, 
he  betrayed  himself  to  her ;  he  threw 
his  arms  round  her  neck  like  a  girl, 
—  but  iu  his  downcast  look,  and  dog- 
O 


226 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


ged  manner,  none  of  the  others  could 
discover  whether  he  was  glad  or  sorry. 
He  went  about  his  work  next  morn- 
ing, as  usual,  and  did  not  even  make 
an  inquiry  about  Rachael. 

It  was  about  twelve  o'clock  the  next 
day,  that  Mrs.  Mayfield  observed  him 
return  from  the  field  and  linger  longer 
than  usual  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
house.  She  invited  Rachael  to  come 
and  look  at  her  pet  calf,  and  walked 
her  most  treacherously  right  up  to 
Robert. 

"  Oh !  "  cried  she,  "  you  must  ex- 
cuse me,  here  is  Robert,  he  will  do 
as  well.  Robert,  you  take  and  show 
her  my  calf,  the  red  and  white  one, 
that 's  a  good  soul,  they  want  me  in- 
doors." And  in  a  moment  she  was 
gone,  and  left  Robert  and  Rachael 
looking  alternately  at  each  other  and 
the  ground. 

When  Rose  left  these  two  together, 
she  thought,  innocently  enough,  that 
the  business  was  half  done,  as  far  as 
they  were  concerned.  She  had  not 
calculated  the  characters  of  the  par- 
ties, and  their  pride.  •  They  were 
little  nearer  each  other  now  than  at 
twenty  miles  distant. 

"Well,  Rachael,"  said  Robert, 
"  I  am  glad  you  are  here  again ;  they 
were  wrong  to  insult  you,  and  now 
they  are  right  to  bring  you  back ;  but 
it  is  no  business  of  mine." 

"  No,  Master  Robert,"  said  Rachael, 
quietly,  "  and  it  is  against  my  will  I 
am  here." 

With  these  words  she  was  moving 
away,  when  Robert  intercepted  her, 
and,  intercepting  her,  said  :  "  0, 1  don't 
hinder  you  to  stay  or  to  go.  The 
folk  say  a  heap  of  things  about  you 
and  me ;  but  did  I  ever  say  a  word 
to  you  more  than  civility  ?  " 

"  No !  nor  would  I  have  suffered  it." 

"  O,  you  are  proud !  it  suits  your 
situation,"  said  Robert,  bitterly. 

"  A  man  and  a  Christian  would 
think  twice  ere  he  reminded  me  of 
my  situation,"  cried  Rachael,  with 
flashing  eyes ;  "  and,  since  you  can't 
feel  for  it,  why  speak  to  me  at  all  1 " 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  affront  you," 


said  Robert,  with  feeling.    "I  pity 
you." 

"  Keep  your  pity  for  one  that  asks 
it,"  was  the  spirited  reply. 

"  What !  are  we  to  worship  you  ?  " 

"Misfortune  that  does  not  com- 
plain should  meet  some  little  respect, 
I  think." 

"Yes,  Rachael,  but  it  would  be 
more  respected  if  you  had  not  kept  it 
so  close. 

"  Master  Robert,"  answered  Ra- 
chael, in  what  we  have  already  de- 
scribed as  her  dogged  manner,  "  poor 
folk  must  work,  and  ought  to  work  ; 
and  as  they  won't  let  a  girl  in  my 
situation,  as  you  call  it,  do  work  or 
be  honest,  I  concealed  my  fault,  —  if 
fault  it  was  of  mine." 

"  And  I  call  it  cruel  to  let  a  man 
love  you,  and  hide  your  story  from 
him. 

"  Xay,  but  I  never  encouraged  any 
man  to  love  me ;  so  I  owe  my  story 
to  no  man." 

"  Keep  your  secrets,  then,"  said 
Robert,  savagely;  "nobody  wants 
them,  without  it  is  Richard  Hickman. 
I  hear  his  cursed  voice  in  the  air 
somewhere." 

"  Richard  Hickman  !  "  gasped  Ra- 
chael. "  O,  why  did  I  come  to  this 
place  to  be  tortured  again  ?  " 

Richard  Hickman  had  come  here 
expressly  to  have  a  friendly  talk  with 
Mr.  Patrick.  Mr.  Patrick  owed  this 
honor  to  the  following  circumstance. 

As  the  wagon  returned  to  the  farm, 
Thomas  had  stopped  at  a  certain  way- 
side public-house,  in  which  Mr.  Hick- 
man happened  to  be  boozing.  Patrick 
was  breathing  threats  against  Hick- 
nian,  and  insisting  on  Rachael's  tak- 
ing the  law  of  him,  and  sending  him 
out  of  the  country.  Rachael,  to  get 
rid  of  the  subject,  yielded  a  languid 
assent ;  and  Hickman,  who  was  in- ' 
tently  listening,  trembled  in  his  shoes. 
To  prevent  this  calamity,  the  prudent 
Richard  determined  to  make  a  pseu- 
do-spontaneous offer  of  some  sort  to 
the  Corporal,  and  hush  up  the  whole 
affair. 

At  the  sight  of  Hickman,  the  Cor- 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


227 


poral  was  for  laying  on,  as  our  elder 
dramatists  have  it ;  but  Mr.  Casenow- 
er,  who  was  there,  arrested  his  arm, 
and  proposed  to  him  to  hear  what  the 
man  h;id  to  say. 

"  Well,"  cried  Patrick,  "  let  him 
speak  out  then  before  them  all,  — 
they  have  all  seen  us  affronted  through 
his  villany.  Where  is  llachael  ?  " 

So  then  the  Corporal  came  round 
to  where  Rachael  stood,  pale  as 
death  ;  and  Robert  sat  pale,  too,  but 
clenching  his  teeth  like  one  who 
would  die  sooner  than  utter  a  cry, 
though  many  vultures,  called  pas- 
sions, were  gnawing  the  poor  lad's 
heart  at  this  moment ;  and,  to  make 
matters  worse,  both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hathorn,  seeing  .this  assemblage, 
were  drawn  by  a  natural  curiosity  to 
join  the  group. 

And  here  Mr.  Hickman's  brass  en- 
abled him  to  cut  a  more  brilliant  fig- 
ure than  his  past  conduct  justified ; 
he  cast  a  sly,  satirical  look  at  them 
all,  especially  at  poor  Robert,  and, 
setting  his  back  to  the  railings,  he 
opened  the  ball  thus  :  — 

"  I  come  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Mayfield  ; 
she  says,  '  Speak  before  all  the  rest.' 
With  all  my  heart.  I  come  to  say 
three  words  to  Mr.  Patrick ;  '  Speak 
before  all  the  rest,'  says  he ;  well, 
why  not  ?  it  is  a  matter  of  taste. 
Mr.  Patrick,  I  have  done  you  wrong, 
and  I  own  it ;  but  you  have  had  your 
revenge.  You  have  told  the  story 
your  way,  and  the  very  boys  are  for 
throwing  stones  at  me  here,  and  you 
have  set  Mrs.  Mayfield  against  me, 
that  used  to  look  at  me  as  a  cat  does 
at  cream." 

"  As  a  cat  does  at  water,  you 
mean, — you  impudent,  ugly  dog." 

"  Keep  your  temper,  my  darling ; 
you  were  for  having  everything  said 
in  public,  you  know.  Well,  now  let 
us  two  make  matters  smooth,  old 
man.  How  much  will  you  take  to 
keep  your  tongue  between  your  teeth 
after  this  ?  " 

Patrick's  reply  came  in  form  of  a 
question  addressed  to  the  company  in 
general. 


"  Friends,  since  Corporal  Patrick 
of  the  47th  Foot  was  ill  amongst  you, 
and  partly  out  of  his  senses,  has  he 
done  any  dirty  action,  that  this  fel- 
low comes  and  offers  him  money  in 
exchange  for  a  good  name  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr.  Patrick,"  said  Robert, 
breaking  silence  for  the  first  time. 
"  You  are  an  honest  man,  and  a  bet- 
ter man  than  ever  stood  in  Dick 
Hickman's  shoes." 

Hickman  bit  his  lip,  and  cast  a 
wicked  glance  at  Robert. 

"  And  your  daughter  is  as  modest 
a  lass  as  ever  broke  bread,  for  all  her 
misfortune,"  cried  Mrs.  Hathorn. 

"  And  none  but  a  scoundrel  would 
hope  to  cure  the  mischief  he  has  done 
with  money,"  cried  the  Mayfield. 

"  Spare  me,  good  people,"  said 
Hickman,  ironically. 

"  Ay,  spare  him,"  said  Patrick, 
simply.  "  I  have  spared  him  this  five 
years  for  Rachael's  sake  ;  but  my  pa- 
tience is  run  out,"  roared  the  old 
man ;  and,  lifting  his  staff,  he  made  a 
sudden  rush  at  the  brazen  Hickman. 
Cascnower  and  Old  Hathorn  inter- 
posed. 

"  Let  him  alone,"  said  Hickman ; 
"  you  may  be  sure  I  sha'  n't  lift  my 
hand  against  fourscore  years.  I'll 
go  sooner,"  and  he  began  to  saunter 
off. 

"  What !  you  are  a  coward  as  well, 
are  you  ?  "  roared  Patrick.  "  Then 
I  pity  you.  Begone,  ye  lump  of  dirt, 
with  your  idleness,  your  pride,  your 
meanness,  your  money,  and  the  shame 
of  having  offered  it  to  a  soldier  like 
me,  that  has  seen  danger  and  glory." 

"  Well  done,  Mr.  Patrick  !  "  cried 
Hathorn ;  "  that  is  an  honor  to  a 
poor  man  to  be  able  to  talk  like  that." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Patrick,  that  was  well 
said." 

"  It  is  well  said,  and  well  done." 

Every  eye  was  now  bent  with  ad- 
miration on  Patrick,  and  from  him 
they  turned  with  an  universal  move- 
ment of  disdain  to  Hickman.  The 
man  writhed  for  a  moment  under  this 
human  lightning,  difficult  to  resist, 
and  then  it  was  he  formed  a  sudden 


228 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


resolution  that  took  all  present  by 
surprise.  Conscience  pricked  him  a 
little,  Rachael's  coldness  piqued  him, 
jealousy  of  Robert  stung  him,  gen- 
eral disdain  annoyed  him,  and  he 
longed  to  turn  the  tables  on  them  all. 
Under  this  strange  medley  of  feelings 
and  motives,  he  suddenly  wheeled 
round,  and  faced  them  all,  with  an 
air  of  defiance  that  made  him  look 
much  handsomer  than  they  had  seen 
him  yet,  and  he  marched  into  the 
middle  of  them. 

"  I  '11  show  you  all  that  I  am  not 
so  bad  as  you  make  me  out,  —  you 
listen,  old  man.  Rachael,  you  say 
that  you  love  me  still,  and  that  'tis 
for  my  sake  you  refuse  Bob  Hathorn, 
as  I  believe  it  is,  and  the  Devil  take 
me  if  I  won't  marry  you  now,  for  all 
that  is  come  and  gone."  He  then 
walked  slowly  and  triumphantly  past 
Robert  Hathorn,  on  whom  he  looked 
down  with  superior  scorn,  and  he 
came  close  up  to  Rachael,  who  was 
observed  to  tremble  as  he  came  near 
her.  "  Well,  Rachael,  my  lass,  I  am 
Richard  Hickman,  and  I  offer  you 
the  ring  before  these  witnesses,  —  say 
yes,  and  you  are  mistress  of  Bix 
Farm,  and  Mrs.  Hickman.  O,  I  know 
the  girl  I  make  the  offer  to,"  add- 
ed he,  maliciously ;  "  if  you  could 
not  find  out  what  she  is  worth,  I 
could.  Where  are  you  all  now  ?  — 
name  the  day,  Rachael,  here  is  the 
man." 

Rachael  made  no  answer. 

It  was  a  strange  situation,  so 
strange  that  a  dead  silence  followed 
Hickman's  words.  Marriage  offered 
to  a  woman  before  a  man's  face  who 
had  tried  to  kill  himself  for  her  but 
yesterday,  and  offered  by  a  man  who 
had  neglected  her  entirely  for  five 
years,  and  had  declined  her  under 
more  favorable  circumstances.  Then 
the  motionless  silence  of  the  woman 
so  addressed,  —  they  all  hung  upon 
her  lips,  poor  Mr.  Cascnower  not  ex- 
cepted,  who  feared  that,  now  Rachael 
was  to  be  Mrs.  Hickman,  Robert 
might  turn  to  Mrs.  Mayfield  and  crush 
his  new-raised  hopes. 


As  for  Robert,  he  did  everything 
he  could  to  make  Rachael  say  "  yes, " 
to  Hickman.  He  called  up  a  dogged 
look  of  indifference,  and  held  it  on 
his  face  by  main  force.  It  is  to  be 
doubted,  though,  whether  this  im- 
posed on  Rachael.  She  stole  a  sin- 
gle glance  at  him  under  her  long 
lashes,  and  at  last  her  voice  broke 
softly,  but  firmly,  on  them  all,  and  it 
sounded  like  a  bell,  so  hushed  were 
they  all,  and  so  highly  strung  was 
their  attention  and  expectation. 

"  I  thank  you,  Richard  Hickman ; 
but  I  decline  your  offer." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  little  girl  ?  " 

"  Rachael,"  said  Patrick,  "  think, 
—  are  you  sure  you  know  your  own 
mind  ?  " 

"  Grandfather,  to  many  a  man,  I 
must  swear  in  the  face  of  Heaven  to 
I  love  and  honor  him.  How  could  I 
respect  Richard  Hickman  ?  If  he  was 
the  only  man  left  upon  the  earth,  I 
could  not  marry  him,  and  I  would 
not.  I  would  rather  die  !  " 

Robert  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  You  have  got  your  answer,"  said 
Patrick,  "  so  now,  if  I  was  you,  I  'd 
be  off." 

"  If  I  don't  I  'm  a  fool.  I  shall 
go  to  my  uncle,  he  lives  ninety  miles 
from  here,  and  you  '11  see  I  shall  get 
a  farm  there  and  a  wife  and  all,  if  so 
be  you  don't  come  there  a  reaping, 
Mr.  Patrick." 

"  Heaven  pardon  you,  then,"  said 
the  old  man,  gravely.  "  You  are  but 
young ;  remember  it  is  not  too  late 
to  repair  your  ill  conduct  to  us  by 
good  conduct  to  others,  —  so  now 
good  afternoon." 

"  Good  afternoon,  Daddy  Patrick," 
said  Hickman,  with  sudden  humility. 
"  Your  servant,  all  the  company," 
added  he,  taking  off  his  hat.  So  say- 
ing, he  went  off.  He  had  no  sooner 
turned  the  corner  than  he  repented 
him  of  the  manner  of  his  going ;  so, 
putting  his  hands  in  his  pickets,  he 
whistled  the  first  verse  of  "  The 
Ploughboy,"  until  out  of  hearing. 
As  these  last  sounds  of  Hickman 
died  away,  they  all  looked  at  one 


CLOUDS  AND   SUNSHINE. 


229 


another  in  silence.    Old  Hathorn  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

'"  That  was  uncommon  spirity  to 
refuse  Hickman,"  said  he,  bluntly ; 
"  but  you  have  too  much  pride,  both 
of  you  ! " 

"  No,  not  I,  farmer,"  said  the  old 
man,  sorrowfully ;  "  I  have  been 
proud,  and  high-spirited,  too ;  but  it 
is  time  that  passed  away  from  me. 
I  am  old  enough  to  see  from  this 
world  into  another,  and  from  this 
hour  to  my  last  (and  that  won't  be 
long,  I  hope),  I  am  patient ;  the  sky 
is  above  the  earth ;  my  child  has  had 
wrong,  —  cruel,  bitter,  undeserved 
wrong ;  but  we  will  wait  for  Heaven's 
justice,  since  man  has  none  for  us, 
and  we  will  take  it  when  it  comes, 
here  or  hereafter." 

»  The  fiery  old  man's  drooping  words 
brought  the  water  into  all  their  eyes, 
and  Robert,  in  whose  mind  so  sore  a 
struggle  had  been  raging,  sprang  to 
his  feet. 

"  You  spenk  well,"  he  cried ;  "  you 
arc  a  righteous  man,  and  my  ill  pride 
falls  before  your  words  ;  it  is  my  turn 
to  ask  yourdaughter  of  you.  Rachacl, 
you  take  me  for  husband  and  friend 
for  life.  I  loved  you  well  enough  to 
die  for  you,  and  now  I  love  you  well 
enough  to  live  for  you ;  Rachacl,  be 
my  wife,  —  if  you  please." 

"  She  won't  say  '  No  ! '  this  time," 
cried  Rose  Mayfield,  archly. 

"  Thank  you,  Robert,"  said  Ra- 
chael,  mournfully.  "  I  am  more  your 
friend  than  to  say  '  Yes  ! ' ': 

"  Rachael,"  cried  Mrs.  Hathorn, 
"  if  it  is  on  our  account,  I  never  saw 
a  lass  I  would  like  so  well  for  a 
daughter-in-law  as  yourself." 

"  No,  mother,"  said  Robert ;  "  it  is 
on  account  of  father.  Father,  if  y.ou 
will  not  be  offended,  I  shall  put  a 
question  to  you  that  I  never  thought 
to  put  to  my  father.  Have  I  been  a 
good  son  or  a  bad  son  to  you  these 
eight-and-twenty  years  1 " 

"  Robert ! "  cried  the  old  man,  in  a 
quivering  tone,  that  showed  these 
simple  words  had  gone  through  and 
through  his  heart.  Then  he  turned 


to  Rachael :  "  My  girl,  I  admire  your 
pride ;  but  have  pity  on  my  poor  boy 
and  me." 

"  And  on  yourself,"  put  in  Mrs. 
Mayfield. 

"  May  Heaven  bless  you,  Mr.  Ha- 
thorn !  "  said  Rachael.  "  If  I  say 
'  No ! '  to  Robert,  I  have  a  reason 
that  need  offend  no  one.  Folk  would 
never  believe  I  was  not  in  fault ;  they 
would  cast  his  wife's  story  in  his  teeth, 
and  sting  us  both  to  death, 'for  he  is 
proud,  and  I  am  proud  too.  And 
what  I  have  gone  through,  —  O,  it 
has  made  me  as  bitter  as  gall !  —  as 
bitter  as  gall ! " 

"  Rachael  Wright,"  cried  the  old 
Corporal,  sternly,  "  listen  to  me  ! " 

"Rachael  Wright,"  yelled  Case- 
nower.  '  O  gracious  Heavens  !  —  Ra- 
chael Wright,  —  it  is  —  it  must  be. 
I  knew  it  was  an  odd  combination,  — 
I  got  it  into  my  head  it  was  '  Rebecca 
Reid.'  Is  this  Rachael  Wright,  sir  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  the  Corporal, 
peevishly. 

"  Then  I  have  got  something  for 
her  from  my  iate  partners.  I'll  find 
it,  — it  is  at  the  bottom  of  my  seeds," ; 
and  away  scampered  Casenower. 

He  presently  returned,  and  inter- 
rupted a  rebuke  Mr.  Patrick  was  ad- 
ministering to  Rachael,  by  giving  her 
a  long  envelope.  She  opened  it  with 
some  surprise,  and  ran  her  eye  over 
it,  for  she  was  what  they  call  vn  the 
country  a  capital  scholar.  Now,  as 
she  read,  her  face  changed  and 
changed  like  an  April  sky,  and  each 
change  was  a  picture  and  a  story. 
They  looked  at  her  in  wonder  as  well 
as  curiosity.  At  last  a  lovely  red 
mantled  in  her  pale  cheek,  and  a 
smile  like  a  rainbow,  a  smile  those 
present  had  never  seen  on  her  face, 
came  back  to  her  from  the  past.  The 
paper  dropped  from  her  hands  as  she 
stretched  them  out,  like  some  benign 
goddess  or  nymph,  all  love,  delicacy, 
and  grace. 

"  Robert,"  she  cried,  and  she  need 
have  said  no  more,  for  the  little  word 
"  Robert,"  as  she  said  it,  was  a  vol- 
ume of  love,  —  "  Robert,  I  love,  I 


230 


CLOUDS  AND  SUNSHINE. 


always  loved  you.  I  am  happy  — 
happy  —  happy ! "  and  she  threw  her 
arm  round  Robert's  neck,  and  cried 
and  sobbed,  and,  crying  and  sobbing, 
told  him  again  and  again  how  happy 
she  was. 

"  Hallo  !  "  cried  Hathorn,  cheerful- 
ly, "  wind  has  shifted  in  your  favor, 
apparently,  Bob." 

Mrs.  Mayficld  picked  up  the  paper. 
"  This  has  done  it,"  cried  she,  and 
she  read  it  out  pro  bono.  The  paper 
contained  the  copy  of  a  will  made  by 
Kachael's  aunt,  a  year  before  she 
died.  The  sour  old  lady,  being  wroth 
with  Rachael  on  account  of  her  mis- 
conduct in  getting  victimized,  but  not 
quite  so  wroth  as  with  her  graceless 
nephew,  had  taken  a  medium  course. 
She  had  not  destroyed  this  will,  as 
she  did  the  other,  by  which  graceless 
nephew  was  to  benefit,  but  she  hid  it 
in  the  wall,  safe  as  ever  magpie  hid 
thimble,  and,  dying  somewhat  sudden- 
ly, she  died  intestate  to  all  appear- 
ance. This  old  lady  was  immeasura- 
bly fond  of  the  old  ramshackly  house 
she  lived  in.  So  after  a  while,  to 
show  his  contempt  of  her,  graceless 
nephew  had  the  house  pulled  down ; 
the  workmen  picked  out  of  the  wall 
the  will  in  question.  An  old  servant 
of  the  lady,  whom  graceless  nephew 
had  turned  off,  lived  hard  by,  and  was 
sorrowfully  watching  the  demolition 
of  the  house,  when  the  will  was 
picked  out.  Old  servant  read  the 
will,  and  found  herself  down  for 
£  100.  Old  servant  took  the  will  to  a 
firm  of  solicitors,  no  other  than  Case- 
nower's  late  partners.  They  sent 
down  to  Rachael's  village ;  she  and 
Patrick  were  gone;  a  neighbor  said 
they  were  reaping  somewhere  in  Ox- 
fordshire. The  firm  sent  a  copy  of 
the  will  to  Casenower  as  a  forlorn 
hope,  and  emploved  a  person  to  look 
out  for  Rachael's  return  to  her.  own 
place,  as  the  best  chance  of  doing 
business  with  her.  By  the  will, 
£  2,000  and  Bix  Farm  were  be- 
queathed to  Rachael. 

"  Bix  Farm  !  Three  hundred 
acres !  "  cried  Hathorn. 


"  Bix  Farm,  —  the  farm  Hickman 
is  on,"  cried  Rose  Mayfield.  "  Kick 
him  out,  he  has  no  lease.  If  you 
don't  turn  him  out  neck  and  crop  be- 
fore noon  to-morrow,  I  am  a  dead 
woman." 

"  The  farm  is  Robert's,"  said 
Rachael;  "and  so  is  all  I  have  to 
give  him,  if  he  will  accept  it."  And, 
though  she  looked  at  Airs.  Mayfield, 
she  still  clung  to  Robert. 

Robert  kissed  her,  and  looked  so 
proudly  at  them  all !  "  Have  I  cho- 
sen ill  ? "  said  Robert's  eyes. 


CHAPTER  X. 


N  everybody  sees  how  a  story 
will  end,  the  story  is  ended.  '< 

Robert  and  Rachael  live  on  their 
own  farm,  Bix  ;  Corporal  Patrick  sits 
by  their  fireside. 

People  laugh  at  Mr.  Casenower's 
eccentricities  ;  but  it  is  found  unsafe 
to  laugh  at  them  in  presence  of  Mrs. 
Casenower,  late  Ma\-field. 

I  think  I  cannot  conclude  better 
than  by  quoting  a  few  words  that 
passed  between  Mrs.  Hathorn  and 
Corporal  Patrick,  as  they  all  sat 
round  one  table  that  happy  evening. 

"  Rose,"  said  this  homely,  good 
creature,  "I  do  notice  that  trouble 
comes  to  all  of  us  at  one  time  or 
other  ;  and  I  think  they  are  the  hap- 
piest that  have  their  trouble  (like 
these  two  children)  in  the  morning  of 
their  days." 

"  Ay,  dame,"  said  the  Corporal, 
taking  up  the  word,  "  and  after  that 
a  bright  afternoon,  and  a  quiet  even- 
ing, —  as  mine  will  be  now,  please 
God  !  " 

Friendly  reader  (for  I  have  friend- 
ly as  well  as  unfriendly  readers),  I 
do  not  wish  you  a  day  without  a 
cloud,  for  you  are  human,  and  I, 
though  a  writer,  am  not  all  humbug. 
But,  in  ending  this  talc,  permit  me 
to  wish  you  a  bright  afternoon,  and 
a  tranquil  evening,  and,  above  all,  a 
clear  sky  when  the  sun  goes  down. 


ART: 


A   DRAMATIC    TALE. 


ART: 

A   DRAMATIC    TALE. 


EARLY  in  the  last  century,  two 
young  women  were  talking  to- 
gether in  a  large  apartment,  richly 
furnished.  One  of  these  was  Susan, 
cousin  and  dependant  of  Mrs.  Anne 
Oldfield ;  the  other  was  a  flower-girl, 
whom  that  lady  had  fascinated  by  her 
scenic  talent.  The  poor  girl  was  but 
one  of  many  persons  over  whom  Mrs. 
Oldfield  had  cast  a  spell ;  and  yet  this 
actress  had  not  reached  the  zenith  of 
her  reputation. 

The  town,  which  does  not  always 
know  its  own  mind  about  actors,  ap- 
plauded one  or  two  of  her  rivals  more 
than  her,  and  fancied  it  admired  them 
more. 

Oldfield  was  the  woman  (there  is 
always  one)  who  used  the  tones  of 
nature  upon  the  stage,  in  that  day ; 
she  ranted  at  times  like  her  neigh- 
bors, but  she  never  ranted  out  of  tune 
like  them  ;  her  declamation  was  na- 
ture, alias  art,  —  thundering ;  theirs 
was  artifice,  —  raving.  Her  treat- 
ment of  words  was  as  follows :  she 
mastered  them  in  the  tone  of  house- 
hold speech  ;  she  then  gradually  built 
up  these  simple  tones  into  a  gorgeous 
edifice  of  music  and  meaning;  but 
though  dilated,  heightened,  and  embel- 
lished, they  never  lost  their  original 
truth.  Her  rivals  started  from  a  lie, 
so,  the  higher  they  soared,  the  further 
they  left  truth  behind  them ;  —  they 
do  the  same  thing  now,  pretty  univer- 
sally. 

The  public  is  a  very  good  judge  ; 
and  no  judge  at  all  of  such  matters :  I 
will  explain. 


Let  the  stage  voice  and  the  dramat- 
ic voice,  —  the  artificial  and  the  ar- 
tistic, —  the  bastard  and  the  legiti- 
mate,—  the  false  and  the  true, — be 
kept  apart  upon  separate  stages,  and 
there  is  no  security  that  the  public 
will  not,  as  far  as  hands  go,  applaud 
the  monotone,  or  lie,  more  than  the 
melodious  truth.  But  set  the  lie  and 
the  truth  side  by  side,  upon  fair  terms, 
and  the  public  becomes  what  the  crit- 
ics of  this  particular  art  have  never 
been,  —  a  critic  ;  and  stage  bubbles, 
that  have  bubbled  for  years,  are  lia- 
ble to  burst  in  a  single  night. 

Mrs.  Oldfield  was  wise  enough, 
even  in  her  generation,  to  know  that 
the  public's  powers  of  comparison  re- 
quire that  the  things  to  be  compared 
shall  be  placed  cheek  by  jowl  before  it ; 
and  this  is  why  she  had  for  some  time 
manreuvred  to  play,  foot  to  foot, 
against  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  the  cham- 
pion of  the  stage. 

Bracegirdle,  strong  in  position,  tra- 
dition, face,  figure,  and  many  qual- 
ities of  an  actor,  was  by  no  means 
sorry  of  an  opportunity  to  quench  a 
rising  rival ;  and  thus  the  two  ladies 
were  to  act  together  in  "  The  Rival 
Queens,"  within  a  few  days  of  our 
story. 

Roxana  .  .  MRS.  BRACEGIRDLE. 
Statira   .  .  MRS.  OLDFIELD. 

The  town,  whose  heart  at  that 
epoch  was  in  the  theatre,  awaited  this 
singular  struggle  in  a  state  of  burning 
excitement  we  can  no  longer  realize. 

Susan  Oldfield,  first  cousin  of  the 


234 


AST:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


tragedian,  was  a  dramatic  aspirant. 
Anne's  success  having  travelled  into 
the  provinces,  her  aunt,  Susan's 
mother,  said  to  Susan,  who  was  mak- 
ing a  cream-cheese,  "  You  go  an'  act 
too,  lass  ! " 

"  I  will,"  said  Susan,  a  making  of 
cream-cheese. 

Anne's  mother  remonstrated,  "  She 
can't  do  it." 

"  Why  not,  sister  ?  "  said  Susan's 
mother,  sharply. 

Then  ensued  some  reasoning. 

"  Anne,"  said  the  tragedian's 
mother,  "  was  born  clever.  I  can't 
account  for  it.  She  was  always  mim- 
icking. She  took  off  the  exciseman, 
and  the  farmers,  and  her  grandmoth- 
er, and  the  very  parson,  —  how  she 
used  to  make  us  laugh !  Mimicking  ! 
why,  it  was  like  a  looking-glass,  and 
the  folks  standing  in  front  of  it,  and 
speaking  behind  it,  all  at  one  time. 
Once  I  made  her  take  me  off;  she 
was  very  loath,  poor  lass.  I  think 
she  knew  she  could  not  do  it  so  well 
as  the  rest ;  it  was  n't  like,  though  it 
made  them  all  laugh  more  than  the 
others  ;  but  the  others  were  as  like  as 
fagot  to  fagot.  Now,  Susan,  she  can't 
take  off  nothing,  without  't  is  the 
scald  cream  from  the  milk,  and  I  "ve 
seen  me  beat  her  at  that ;  I  'm  not 
bragging." 

To  this  piece  of  ratiocination,  Su- 
san's mother  opposed  the  follow- 
ing:— 

"  Talent  is  in  the  blood,"  said  she. 
(This  implies  that  great  are  all  the 
first  cousins  of  the  great.) 

Anne's  mother  might  have  weak- 
ened this  by  examples  at  her  own 
door,  to  wit,  the  exciseman,  who  was 
a  clever  fellow,  and  his  son  an  ass. 
But  she  preferred  keeping  within  her 
own  line  of  argument,  and  as  the  la- 
dies floated,  by  a  law  of  their  nature, 
away  from  that  to  which  lawyers 
tend,  an  issue,  they  drifted  divaguely 
over  the  great  pacific  ocean  of  fem- 
inine logic.  At  last  a  light  shot  into 
Anne's  mamma :  she  found  teira 
Jinna,  i.  e.  an  argument  too  strong 
for  refutation. 


"Besides,  Jane,"  said  she,  "  I  want 
your  Susan  to  churn !  So  there  'a 
an  end ! " 

Alas  !  she  had  underrated  the  rival 
disputant.  Susan's  mother  took  ref- 
uge in  an  argument  equally  irrefra- 
gable :  she  packed  up  the  girl's  things 
that  night,  and  sent  her  off  by  coach 
to  Anne  next  morning. 

Susan  arrived,  told  her  story  and 
her  hopes  on  Anne's  neck.  "Anne 
laughed,  and  made  room  for  her  on 
the  third  floor.  The  cousins  went  to 
the  theatre  that  evening,  the  aspirant 
in  front. 

Susan  passed  through  various  emo- 
tions, and  when  Belvidera  "  gazed, 
turned  giddy,  raved,  and  died,"  she 
ran  to  the  stage  door,  with  some  mis- 
givings whether  she  might  not,  be 
wanted  to  lay  her  cousin  out.  In 
Anne's  dressing-room  she  found  a 
laughing  dame,  who,  whilst  wiping 
off  her  rouge,  told  her  she  was  a  fool, 
and  asked  her  rather  sharply,  "  how 
!  it  went." 

"  The  people  clapped  their  hands  ! 
I  could  have  kissed  them,"  said  Susan. 

"  As  if  I  could  not  hear  that,  child," 
said  Anne.  "  I  want  to  know  how 
many  cried  where  you  were  —  " 

"  Now,  how  can  I  tell  you,  cousin, 
when  I  could  not  see  for  crying  my- 
self?" 

"  You  cried,  —  did  you  ?  I  am 
very  glad  of  that !  " 

"  La,  cousin  !  " 

"  It  does  not  prove  much,  but  it 
proves  more  than  their  clapping  of 
hands.  You  shall  be  my  barber's 
block, — you  don't  understand  me, — 
all  the  better,  —  come  home  to  sup- 
per." 

At  supper,  the  tragedian  made  the 
dairymaid  tell  her  every  little  village 
event ;  and,  in  her  turn,  recalled  all 
the  rural  personages  ;  and,  reviving 
the  trick  of  her  early  youth,  imitated 
their  looks,  manners",  and  sentiments, 
to  the  life. 

She  began  with  the  exciseman,  and 
ended  with  the  curate,  —  a  white- 
headed  old  gentleman,  all  learning, 
piety,  and  simplicity.  He  had  seen 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


23J 


in  this  beautiful  and  gifted  woman 
only  a  Limb  that  lie  was  to  lead  up 
to  heaven,  —  please  God. 

The  naughtiest  things  we  do  are 
sure  to  be  the  cleverest,  and  this  im- 
itation made  Susan  laugh  more  than 
the  others. 

But  in  the  midst  of  it  the  mimic 
suddenly  paused,  and  her  eye  seemed 
to  turn  inwards  :  she  was  quite  silent 
for  a  moment. 

Ah !  Oldfield,  in  that  one  moment 
I  am  sure  your  heart  has  drunk 
many  a  past  year.  It  is  away  to  the 
banks  of  Trent,  to  grass  and  flowers, 
and  days  of  innocence,  to  church-bells 
and  a  cottage  porch,  and  .your  moth- 
er's bosom,  my  poor  woman,  —  prin- 
cess of  the  st:ige. 

She  faltered  out :  "  But  he  was  a 
good  man.  0  yes  !  yes  !  yes  !  he 
was  a  good  man ;  he  admired  me 
more  then  than  he  would  now  !  None 
like  him  shine  on  my  path  now." 
And  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying. 

Susan  cried  with  her,  without  in 
the  least  knowing  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. And  these  most  dissimilar  be- 
ings soon  learned  to  love  one  another. 
The  next  day  Anne  took  the  gauge 
of  Susan's  entire  intellects ;  and,  by 
way  of  comment  on  the  text  of  Su- 
san, connected  her  with  dramatic  po- 
etry, as  Mrs.  Oldfield's  dresser. 

Susan  then  had  been  installed  about 
three  months,  when  she  was  hold- 
ing that  conversation  with  the  flower- 
girl,  which  I  have  too  long  interrupt- 
ed. 

"  It  is  an  odd  thing  to  say,  but  I 
think  you  are  in  love  with  my  cousin 
Anne." 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer. 
"  I  am  drawn  to  her  -by  something  I 
cannot  resist :  I  followed  her  home 
for  three  months  before  I  spoke  to 
you.  Will  she  not  be  angry  at  my 
presumption  ?  " 

"  La !  Of  course  not :  it  is  not  as 
if  you  were  one  of  these  impudent 
men  that  follow  her  about,  and  slip 
notes  into  every  mortal  thing,  —  h$r 
carriage,  her  prayer-book." 

Now  Susan  happened  to  be  laying 


out  the  new  dress  for  Statira,  which 
had  just  come  in  ;  and,  in  a  manner 
singularly  apropos,  no  less  than  two 
nice  little  notes  fell  out  of  it  as  she 
spoke. 

The  girls  looked  at  them,  as  they 
lay  on  the  floor,  like  deer  looking 
askant  at  a  lapdog. 

"  Oh ! "  said  the  votary  of  Flora ; 
"  they  ought  to  be  ashamed." 

"  So  they  ought,"  cried  Susan. 
"I'd  say  nothing,"  added  she,  "if 
some  of  them  were  for  me.  But  I 
shall  have  them  when  I  am  an  ac- 
tress." 

"  Are  you  to  be  that  ?  Ah !  you 
will  never  be  like  her !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  She  is  only  my 
mother's  sister's  daughter,  bless  you. 
Anne  was  only  a  country  lass  like 
me,  at  first  starting,  and  that  is  why 
my  mother  sent  me  here,  because, 
when  talent  is  in  a  family,  don't  let 
one  churn  all  the  butter,  says  she." 

"  But  can  you  act  ?  "  interposed  the 
other. 

"  Can't  I?  "  was  the  answer. 

"  His  fame  survives  the  world  in  deathless 

story, 

Nor  heaven  and  earth  combined  can  match 
his  glory." 

These  lines,  which  in  our  day 
would  be  thought  a  leetle  hyperboli- 
cal, Susan  recited  with  gestures 
equally  supernatural.' 

"Bless  you,"  added  she,  compla- 
cently :  "  I  could  act  fast  enough,  if 
I  could  but  get  the  words  off.  Can 
you  read  1 " 

"  Yes  !  " 

"Handwriting?  Tell  the  truth, 
now ! " 

"  Yes  !    I  can  indeed." 

"  Handwriting  is  hard,  is  it  not  ?  " 
said  Susan ;  "  but  a  part  beats  all : 
did  ever  vou  sec  a  part  ?  " 

"No!" 

"  Well,  I  '11  tell  ye,  girl  !  there 
comes  a  great  scratch,  and  then  some 
words :  but  don't  you  go  for  to  say 
those  words,  because  they  belong  to 
another  gentleman,  and  he  might  n't 
like  it.  Then  you  come  in,  and  then 


236 


ART  :    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


another  scratch.  And  I  declare  it 
would  puzzle  Old  Scratch  to  clear  the 
curds  from  the  whey  —  " 

Susan  suddenly  interrupted  herself, 
for  she  had  caught  sight  of  a  lady 
slowly  approaching  from  an  adjoining 
room,  the  door  of  which  was  open. 
"  Hush  !  "  cried  Susan  ;  "  here  she 
is  !  alack,  she  is  not  well !  0  dear ! 
she  is  far  from  Avell ! "  And,  in  point 
of  fact,  the  lady  slowly  entered  the 
apartment,  laboring  visibly  under  a 
weight  of  disease.  The  poor  flower- 
girl,  naturally  thinking  this  no  time 
for  her  introduction,  dropped  a  bouquet 
on  the  table  and  retreated  precipitately 
from  the  den  of  the  sick  lioness. 

Then  the  lady  opened  her  lips, 
and  faltered  forth  the  following  sen- 
tence :  — 

"  I  go  no  further,  let  me  rest  here, 
CEnone ! " 

"  Do,  cousin !  "  said  Susan,  con- 
solingly. 

"  I  droop,  I  sink,  my  strength 
abandons  me ! "  said  the  poor  invalid. 

"  Here  's  a  chair  for  y',  Anne," 
cried  Susan.  "  What  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  " 

On  this,  the  other,  fixing  her  filmy 
eyes  upon  her,  explained,  slowly  and 
faintly,  that,  " '  Her  eyes  were  daz- 
zled with  returning  day ;  her  trem- 
bling limbs  refused  their  wonted  stay.' 

"  Ah !  "  sighed  she,  and  tottertd 
towards  the  chair. 

"  She  's  going  to  faint,  —  she 's 
going  to  faint ! "  cried  poor  Susan. 
"  O  dear  !  Here,  quick !  smell  to 
this,  Anne." 

"That  will  do,  then,"  said  the 
other,  in  a  hard,  unfeeling  tone.  "  I 
am  fortunate  to  have  satisfied  your 
judgment,  madam,"  added  she. 

Susan  stood  petrified,  in  the  act  of 
hurrying  with  the  smelling-bottle. 

"  That  is  the  way  I  come  on  in  that 
scene,"  explained  Mrs.  Oldfield,  yawn- 
ing in  Susan's  sympathetic  face. 

"  Acting,  by  jingo  !  "  screamed 
Susan.  "  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  ; 
I  thought  you  were  a  dead  woman. 
I  wish  you  would  n't,"  cried  she, 
flying  at  her  like  a  hen ;  "  torment- 


ing us  at  home,  when  there  's  no- 
body to  see." 

"  It  is  my  system,  —  I  aim  at 
truth.  You  are  unsophisticated,  and 
I  experiment  on  you,"  was  the  cool 
excuse. 

"  Cousin,  when  am  /  to  be  an  ac- 
tress ?  "  inquired  Susan. 

"  After  fifteen  years'  labor,  per- 
haps," was  the  encouraging  response. 

"Labor !  I  thought  it  was  all  in — 
spi — ration  !  " 

"  Many  think  so,  and  find  their  er- 
ror. Labor  and  Art  are  the  founda- 
tion,—  Inspiration  is  the  result." 

"  0  Anne,"  cried  Susan,  "  now  do 
tell  me  your  feelings  in  the  theatre." 

"  Well,  Susan,  first,  I  cast  my  eyes 
around,  and  try  to  count  the  house." 

"  No,  no,  Anne,  I  don't  mean  that." 

"  Well,  then,  child,  at  times  upon 
the  scene,  —  mind,  I  say  at  times,  — 
the  present  does  fade  from  my  soul, 
and  the  great  past  lives  and  burns 
again ;  the  boards  seem  buoyant  air 
beneath  me,  child ;  that  sea  of  Eng- 
Hsh  heads  floats  like  a  dream  before 
me,  and  I  breathe  old  Greece  and 
Rome.  I  ride  on  the  whirlwind  of 
the  poet's  words,  and  wave  my  sceptre 
like  a  queen,  —  ay,  and  a  queen  I  am  ! 

—  for  kings  govern  millions  of  bodies, 
but  I  sway  a  thousand  hearts !     But, 
to  tell  the  truth,  Susan,  when  all  is 
over,  I  sink  back  to  woman,  —  and 
often  my  mind  goes  home,  dear,  to 
our  native  town,  where  Trent  glides 
so  calmly  through  the  meadows.      I 
pine  to  be  by  his  side,  far  from  the 
dust  of  the  scene,  and  the  din  of  life, 

—  to  take  the  riches  of  my  heart  from 
flatterers,  strangers,  and  the  world, 
and  give  them  all,  all,  to  one  faithful 
heart,  large,  full,  and  loving  as  my 
own  !     Where 's  my  dress  for  Statira, 
hussy  ?  "     She  snapped  this  last  with 
a  marvellous  quick  change  of  key,  and 
a  sudden  sharpness  of  tone  peculiar  to 
actresses  when  stage-dresses   are  in 
question. 

"  Here  it  is.     O,  is  n't  it  superb  1 " 
"  Yes,  it  is  superb,"  said  Oldfield, 
dryly ;    "  velvet,    satin,    and   ostrich- 
feathers,  for  an  Eastern  queen.     The 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


237 


same  costume  for  Bclvidera,  Statira, 
Clytemnestra,  and  Mrs.  Dobbs.  O 
prejudice  !  prejudice  !  The  stage  has 
always  been  fortified  against  common 
sense !  Velvet  Greeks,  periwigged  Ro- 
mans,—  the  audience  mingling  with 
the  scene,  —  past  and  present  blun- 
dered together  ! —  English  fops  in  the 
Roman  forum,  taking  snuff  under  a 
Roman  matron's  nose  (that 's  me), 
and  cackling  out  that  she  docs  it  noth- 
ing like  (no  more  she  does)-  —  noth- 
ing like  Peggy  Portcous,  —  whose 
merit  was  that  she  died  thirty  years 
ago,  whose  merit  would  have  been 
greater  had  she  died  fifty  years  ago, 
and  much  greater  still  had  she  never 
lived  at  all." 

Here  Susan  offered  her  half  a  dozen 
letters,  including  the  smuggled  notes ; 
but  the  sweet-tempered  soul  (being 
for  the  moment  in  her  tantrums) 
would  not  look  at  them.  "  I  know 
what  they  are,"  said  she ;  "  vanity, 
in  marvellous  thin  disguises;  my 
flatterers  are  so  eloquent,  that  they 
will  persuade  me  into  marrying  poor 
old  Mannering, —  every  morning  he 
writes  me  four  pages,  and  tells  me  my 
duty;  every  evening  he  neglects  his 
own,  and  goes  to  the  theatre,  which 
is  unbecoming  his  age,  I  think." 

"  He  looks  a  very  wise  gentleman," 
observed  Susan. 

"  He  does,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "  but 
his  folly  reconciles  me  in  some  degree 
to  his  wisdom ;  so,  mark  my  words, 
I  shall  marry  my  silly  sage.  There, 
burn  all  the  rest  but  his  —  no !  don't 
burn  the  letter  in  verse  !  " 

"  In  verse  ? " 

"  Yes !  I  won't  have  him  burnt 
cither,  —  for  he  loves  me,  poor  boy  ! 
Find  it,  Susan ;  he  never  misses  a 
day.  I  think  I  should  like  to  know 
that  one." 

"  I  think  this  is  it,"  said  Susan. 

"  Then  read  it  out  expressively, 
whilst  I  mend  this  collar.  So  then  I 
shall  estimate  your  progress  to  the 
temple  of  Fame,  ma'am." 

It  is  not  easy  to  do  justice  on  paper 
to  Susan's  recitative ;  but,  in  fact, 
she  read  it  much  as  school-boys  scan, 


and  what  she  read  to  her  cousin  for  a 
poet's  love  hopped  thus  :  — 

" '  Excuse  —  me    dear— est  friend  —  If  I  — 

should  appear 
loo  prC-ss— lag  but  —  at  my  —  years  one 

—  hS,s  not 
Much  time  —  to  lose  —  and  your  —  good 

sense  —  I  feel  —  '  " 

"  My  good  sense !  "  cried  Mrs.  Old- 
field,  "  how  can  that  be  poetry  ?  " 

"It  is  poetry,  I  know,"  remon- 
strated Susan.  "  See,  cousin,  it 's  all 
of  a  length." 

"  All  of  a  length  with  your  wit,  — 
that  is  the  Mannering  prose." 

"  Drat  them,  if  they  write  in  lines, 
how  is  one  to  know  their  prose  from 
their  verse  1 "  said  Susan,  spitefully. 

"  I  '11  tell  you,  Susan,"  said  the 
other,  soothingly  ;  "  their  prose  is 
something  as  like  Mannering  as  can 
be,  their  verse  is  something  in  this 
style :  —  , 

"  You  were  not  made  to  live  from  age  to  age  5 
The  dairy  yawns  for  you,  —  and  not  the 


"He!  he!" 

She  found  what  she  sought,  and, 
reading  out  herself  the  unknown 
writer's  verses,  she  said,  with  some 
feminine  complacency,  "  Yes  !  this  is 
a  heart  I  have  really  penetrated." 

"  I  've  penetrated  one,  too,"  said 
Susan. 

"  Indeed !  "  was  the  reply ;  "  how 
did  you  contrive  that,  —  not  with  the 
spit,  I  hope  ?  " 

Thus  encouraged,  Susan  delivered 
herself  most  volubly  of  a  secret  that 
had  long  burned  in  her.  She  pro- 
ceeded to  relate  how  she  had  observed 
a  young  gentleman  always  standing 
by  the  stage-door  as  they  got  into 
their  chariot,  and  when  they  reached 
home,  somehow,  he  was  always  stand- 
ing there  too.  "  It  was  not  for  you, 
this  one,"  said  Susan,  hastily,  "  be- 
cause you  are  so  wrapped  up  he  could 
not  see  you."  Then  she  told  her 
cousin  how,  once,  when  they  were  walk- 
ing separately,  this  same  young  gentle- 
man had  said  to  her,  most  tenderly, 
"Madam,  you  are  in  the  service  of 


238 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


Mrs.  Oldfield  1  "  and,  on  another 
occasion,  he  had  got  as  far  as,  "  Mad- 
am," when  unfortunately  her  cousin 
looked  round,  and  he  vanished.  Su- 
san, then  throwing  off  the  remains  of 
her  reserve,  and  clasping  her  hands 
together,  confessed  she  admired  him 
as  much  as  he  did  her.  Susan  gave 
this  reason  for  her  affection  :  "  He  is, 
for  all  the  world,  like  one  of  the 
young  tragedy  princes,  and  you  know 
what  ducks  they  are." 

"  I  do,  to  my  cost,"  was  the  caustic 
reply.  "  I  wish,  instead  of  talking 
about  this  silly  lover  of  yours,  who 
must  be  a  fool,  or  he  would  have  made 
a  fool  of  you  long  ago,  you  would 
find  out  who  is  the  brave  young  gen- 
tleman who  risked  his  life  for  me 
last  month.  Now  I  think  of  it,  I  am 
quite  interested  in  him." 

"  Eisked  his  life !  —  and  you  never 
told  me,  Anne  ! " 

"  Robert  told  you,  of  course." 

"No,  indeed!" 

"  Did  he  not  1  —  then  I  will  tell  you 
the  whole  story.  You  have  heard  me 
speak  of  the  Duchess  of  Tadcaster  ?  " 

"  No,  cousin,  never !  " 

"  I  wonder  at  that !  Well,  she  and 
Lady  Betsy  Bertie  and  I  used  to  stroll 
in   Richmond  Park   with   our  arms 
round  one  another's  waists,  like  the 
Graces,  more   or  less,  and   kiss    one  I 
another,  ugh !  and  swear  a  deathless  I 
friendship,  like  liars  and  fools  as  we  ' 
are.     But  her  Grace  of  Tadcaster  had 
never  anything  to  do,  and  I  had  my  j 
business,  so  I  could   not   always  be 
plagued  with  her ;  so  for  this  the  little 
idiot  now  aspires  to  my  enmity,  and, 
knowing  none   but  the  most  vulgar 
ways  of  showing  a  sentiment,  she  bids 
her  coachman  drive  her  empty  car- 1 
riage  against  mine,   containing  me.  i 
Child,  I  thought  the  world  was  at  an 
end :    the  glasses   were   broken,    the 
wheels  locked,  and  all  my  little  sins 
began  to  appear  such  big  ones  to  me ;  i 
and  the  brute  kept  whipping  the  horses, 
and  they  plunged  so  horribly,  when  a 
brave  young  gentleman  sprang  to  their 
heads,  tore  them  away,  and  gave  her 
nasty  coachman  such  a  caning."  Here 


Oldfield  clinched  a  charming  white 
fist ;  then,  lifting  up  her  eyes,  she  said 
tenderly,  "  Heaven  grant  no  harm  be- 
fell him  afterwards,  for  I  drove  off, 
and  left  him  to  his  fate  !  " 

Charming  sensibility  !  an  actress's  ! 

In  return  for  this  anecdote,  Susan 
was  about  to  communicate  some  fur- 
ther particulars  on  the  subject  which 
occupied  all  her  secret  thoughts,  when 
she  was  interrupted  by  a  noise  and 
scuffle  in  the  anteroom,  high  above 
which  were  heard  the  loud,  harsh 
tones  of  a  stranger's  voice  exclaiming, 
"  But  I  tell  ye  I  will  see  her,  ye  saucy 
Jack." 

Before  this  personage  bursts  upon 
Mrs.  Oldfield,  and  the  rest  of  us,  I 
must  go  back  and  take  up  the  other 
end  of  my  knot  in  the  ancient  town  of 
Coventry. 

Nathan  Oldworthy  dwelt  there  ;  a 
flourishing  attorney ;  he  had  been  a 
clerk;  he  came  to  be  the  master  of 
clerks ;  his  own  ambition  was  satis- 
fied, but  his  son  Alexander,  a  youth  of 
parts,  became  the  centre  of  a  second 
ambition.  Alexander  was  to  embrace 
the  higher  branch  of  the  legal  profes- 
sion :  was  to  be,  first  pleader,  then  bar- 
rister, then  King's  counsel,  —  lastly,  a 
judge;  and  contemporaneously  with 
this  final  distinction,  the  old  attorney 
was  to  sing  "  Nunc  Dimittis,"  and 
"  Capias  "  no  more. 

By-standers  are  obliging  enough 
to  laugh  at  such  schemes  ;  but  why  ? 
The  heart  is  given  to  them,  and  they 
are  no  laughing  matter  to  those  who 
form  them  :  such  schemes  destroyed, 
the  flavor  is  taken  out  of  human  lives. 

When  Nathan  sent  his  son  to  Lon- 
don, it  was  a  proud,  though  a  sad 
day  for  him  ;  hitherto  he  had  looked 
upon  their  parting  merely  as  the  first 
step  of  a  glorious  ladder ;  but  when 
the  coach  took  young  Alexander  out 
of  sight,  the  father  found  how  much 
he  loved  him,  and  paced  very,  very 
slowly  home,  while  Alexander  glided 
contentedly  on  towards  London. 

Now,  "  London  "  means  a  different 
thing  to  every  one  of  us  ;  to  one,  it  is 
the  Temple  of  Commerce ;  to  another, 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


239 


of  Themis ;  to  a  third,  of  Thespis ; 
and  to  a  fourth,  of  the  Paphian  Ve- 
nus ;  and  so  on,  because  we  are  all 
much  narrower  than  men  ought  to 
be.  To  Nathan  Oldworthy  it  was 
the  sacred  spot  where  grin  the  courts 
of  law.  To  Alexander  it  was  the  sa- 
cred spot  where  ( being  from  the  coun- 
try) he  thought  to  find  the  nine 
Muses  in  bodily  presence,  —  his  fa- 
vorite Melpomene  at  their  head.  Na- 
than knew  next  to  nothing  about  his 
own  son,  a  not  uncommon  arrange- 
ment. Alexander,  upon  the  whole, 
rather  loathed  law,  and  adored  poetry. 
In  those  days  youths  had  not  learned 
"  to  frown  in  a  glass,  and  write  odes 
to  despair,"  and  be  dubbed  a  duck  by 
tender  beauty  confounding  sulks  with 
sorrow.  Alexander  had  to  woo  the 
Muse  clandestinely,  and  so  wooed  her 
sincerely.  lie  went  with  a  manuscript 
tragedy  in  his  pocket  called  "  Bere- 
nice," which  he  had  rewritten  and 
reshaped  three  several  times  ;  with  a 
head  full  of  ideas,  and  a  heart  turned 
to  truth,  beauty,  and  goodness.  Ar- 
rived there,  he  was  installed  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  under  the  secret 
surveillance,  of  his  father's  friend, 
Timothy  Bateman,  Solicitor  of  Gray's 
Inn. 

If  you  had  asked  Alexander  Old- 
worthy,  upon  the  coach,  who  is  the 
greatest  of  mankind,  his  answer  would 
have  been  instantaneous,  a  true  poet ! 
But  the  first  evening  he  spent  in  Lon- 
don raised  a  doubt  of  this  in  his  mind, 
for  he  discovered  a  being  brighter,  no- 
bler, truer,  greater,  than  even  a  poet. 

At  four  Alexander  reached  Lon- 
don. At  five  he  was  in  his  first  the- 
atre. 

That  sense  of  the  beautiful  which 
belongs  to  genius  made  him  see 
beauty  in  the  semicircular  sweep  of 
the  glowing  boxes  ;  in  gilt  ornaments 
glorious  with  light ;  and,  above  all, 
in  human  beings  gayly  dressed,  and 
radiant  with  expectation.  And  all 
these  things  are  beautiful ;  only  gross, 
rustic  senses  cannot  see  it,  and  blunt- 
ed town  senses  can  see  it  no  longer. 

Before  the  play  began,  music  at- 


j  tacked  him  on  another  side  ;  and  all 
combined  with  youth  and  novelty  to 
raise  him  to  a  high  key  of  intellectual 
enjoyment ;  and  when  the  ample  cur- 
tain rose,  slowly  and  majestically, 
upon  Mr.  Otway's  tragedy  of  "  Ven- 
ice Preserved,"  it  was  an  era  in  this 
young  life. 

Poetry  rose  from  the  dead  before 
his  eyes  this  night.  She  lay  no  long- 
er entombed  in  print.  She  floated 
around  the  scene,  ethereal,  but  pal- 
pable. She  breathed  and  burned  in 
heroic  shapes,  and  godlike  tones,  and 
looks  of  fire. 

Presently  there  glided  among  the 
other  figures  one  that  by  enchant- 
ment seized  the  poet's  eye,  and  made 
all  that  his  predecessors  had  ever  writ 
in  praise  of  grace  and  beauty  seem 
tame  by  comparison. 

She  spoke,  and  his  frame  vibrated 
to  this  voice.  All  his  senses  drank 
in  her  great  perfections,  and  he 
thrilled  with  wonder  and  enthusiastic 
joy,  that  this  our  earth  contained  such 
a  being.  He  seemed  to  see  the  Eve 
of  Milton,  with  Madonna's  glory 
crowning  her  head,  and  immortal 
music  gushing  from  her  lips. 

The  lady  was,  in  point  of  fact,  Mrs. 
Oldfield,  —  the  Belvidera  of  the  play. 

Alexander  thought  he  knew  "  Ven- 
ice Preserved "  before  this ;  but  he 
found,  as  the  greatest  wits  must  sub- 
mit to  discover,  that  in  the  closet  a 
good  play  is  but  the  corpse  of  a  play ; 
the  stage  gives  it  life.  (The  printed 
words  of  a  play  are  about  one  third 
of  a  play  ;  the  tones  and  varying  melo- 
dies of  beautiful  and  artful  speech  are 
another  third ;  and  the  business,  ges- 
ture, and  that  great  visible  story,  the 
expression  of  the  speaking,  and  the 
tlumb  play  of  the  silent  actors,  are 
another  third.) 

Belvidera's  voice,  full,  sweet,  rich, 
piercing,  and  melodious,  and  still  in 
its  vast  compass  true  to  the  varying 
sentiment  of  all  she  uttered,  seemed 
to  impregnate  every  line  with  double 
meaning  and  treble  beauty.  Her  au- 
thor dilated  into  giant  size  and  god- 
like beauty  at  the  touch  of  that  voice. 


240 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


And  when  she  was  silent  she  still 
spoke  to  Alexander's  eye,  for  her  face 
was  more  eloquent  than  vulgar 
tongues  are.  Her  dumb-play  from  the 
first  to  the  last  moment  of  the  scene 
was  in  as  high  a  key  as  her  elocution. 
Had  she  not  spoken  one  single  word, 
still  she  would  have  written  in  the  air 
by  the  side  of  Otway's  syllables  a 
great  pictorial  narrative,  that  filled  all 
the  chinks  of  his  sketch  with  most 
rare  and  excellent  colors  of  true  flesh- 
tint,  and  made  that  sketch  a  picture. 

Here  was  a  new  art  for  our  poet ; 
and  as,  by  that  just  arrangement 
which  pervades  the  universe,  "  act- 
ing "  is  the  most  triumphant  of  all  the 
arts,  to  compensate  it  for  being  the 
most  evanescent,  what  wonder  that  he 
thrilled  beneath  its  magic,  and  wor- 
shipped its  priestess? 

He  went  home  filled  with  a  new 
sense  of  being,  —  all  seemed  cold, 
dark,  and  tame,  until  he  could  return 
and  see  this  poetess-orator-witch  and 
her  enchantments  once  more. 

In  those  days  they  varied  the  enter- 
tainments in  London  almost  as  they 
do  in  the  provinces  now  ;  and  Alex- 
ander, who  went  to  the  theatre  six 
nights  a  week,  saw  Mrs.  Oldfield's 
beauty  and  talent  in  many  shapes. 
Her  power  of  distinct  personation  was 
very  great  Her  Andromache,  her  Is- 
mena,  and  Belvidera  were  all  differ- 
ent beings.  Also  each  of  her  tragic 
personations  left  upon  the  mind  a 
type.  One  night  young  Oldworthy 
saw  majesty,  another  tenderness,  an- 
other fiery  passion  personified  and  em- 
bodied in  a  poetic  creation. 

But  a  fresh  surprise  was  in  store 
for  him  :  the  next  week  comedy  hap- 
pened to  be  in  the  ascendant ;  and  I 
Mrs.  Oldfield,  whose  entree  in  charac- 
ter was  always  the  key-note  of  her 
personation,  sprang  upon  the  stage 
as  Lady  Townley,  and  in  a  moment 
the  air  seemed  to  fill  with  singing 
birds  that  chirped  the  pleasures  of 
youth,  beauty,  and  fashion,  in  notes 
that  sparkled  like  diamonds,  stars, 
and  prisms.  Her  genuine  gushing 
gayety  wanned  the  coldest  and 


cheered    the  forlornest  heart.      Nor 

was   she  less  charming    in   the   last 

act,    where    Lady    Townley's    good 

sense  being  at  last  alarmed,  and  her 

good  heart   touched,  she   bowed  her 

saucy  head,  and  begged  her  Lord's 

pardon,  with  tender,  unaffected  peni- 

i  tence.   The  tears  stood  thick  in  Alex- 

j  ander's    eyes    during  that  charming 

scene,  where  in  a  prose  comedy  the 

|  author  has  had  the  courage  and  the 

beauty  to  spread  his  wings  and  rise  in 

a  moment  into  verse  with  the  rising 

sentiment. 

To   this  succeeded  Maria  in  "  The 
\  Conjuror,"  and  Indiana  in  what  the 
!  good  souls  of  that  day  were  pleased 
I  to  call  the  comedy  of  "  The  Conscious 
Lovers,"  in  the  course  of  which  com- 
edy  Indiana  made  Alexander  weep 
more  constantly,   continuously,   and 
copiously  than  in  all  the  tragedies  of 
the  epoch  he  had  as  yet  witnessed. 

So  now  Alexander  Oldworthy  lived 
for  the  stage ;  and,  as  the  pearl  is  the 
disease  of  the  oyster,  so  this  Siren  be- 
came Alexander's  disease.  The  en- 
thusiast lost  his  hold  of  real  life. 
Real  life  became  to  him  an  interlude, 
and  soon  that  followed  which  was  to 
be  expected :  the  poor  novice,  who 
had  begun  by  adoring  the  artist,  end- 
ed by  loving  the  woman,  and  he  loved 
her  like  a  novice  and  a  poet ;  he 
looked  into  his  own  heart,  confounded 
it  with  hers,  and  clothed  her  with 
every  heroic  quality.  He  believed 
her  as  great  in  mind  and  as  good 
in  heart,  as  she  was  lovely  in 
person,  and  he  would  have  given 
poems  to  be  permitted  to  kiss  her 
dress,  or  to  lay  his  neck  for  a  moment 
under  her  foot.  Burning  to  attract 
her  attention,  yet  too  humble  and  tim- 
id to  make  an  open  attempt,  he  had 
at  last  recourse  to  his  own  art. 
Every  day  he  wrote  verses  upon  her, 
and  sent  them  to  her  house.  Every 
night  after  the  play  he  watched  at  the 
stage  door  for  a  glimpse  of  her  as  she 
came  out  of  the  theatre  to  her  carriage, 
and,  being  lighter  of  foot  than  the  car- 
riage-horses of  his  century,  he  gener- 
ally managed  to  catch  another  glimpse 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


241 


of  her  as  she  stepped  from  her  car- 
riage into  her  own  house. 

But  a'l  this  led  to  no  results,  and 
Alexander's  heart  was  often  very  cold 
and  sick.  Whilst  he  sat  at  the  play  he 
was  in  Elysium ;  but  when,  after  seeing 
this  divinity  vanish,  he  returned  to  his 
lodgings  and  looked  at  his  attach- 
ment by  the  light  of  one  candle,  de- 
spondency fell  like  a  weight  of  ice  upon 
him,  and  he  was  miserable  till  he  had 
written  her  some  verses.  The  verses 
writ,  he  was  miserable  till  play-time. 

One  night  he  stood  as  usual  at  the 
stage  door  after  the  performance, 
watching  for  Mrs.  Oldfield,  who,  in  a 
general  Way,  was  accompanied  by  her 
cousin  Susan.  This  night,  however, 
she  was  alone  ;  and,  having  seen  her 
enter  her  chariot,  Alexander  was 
about  to  start  for  her  house  to  sec  her 
get  down  from  it,  when  suddenly 
another  carriage  came  into  contact 
with  Mrs.  Oldfield's.  The  collision 
was  violent,  and  Mrs.  Oldfield 
screamed  with  unaffected  terror,  at 
which  scream  Alexander  sprang  to 
the  horses  of  the  other  carriage,  and, 
seizing  one  of  them  just  above  the 
curb,  drew  him  violently  back.-  To 
his  surprise,  instead  of  co-operating 
with  him,  the  adverse  coachman 
whipped  both  his  horses,  and,  whether 
by  accident  or  design,  the  lash  fell 
twice  on  Alexander.  Jehu  never 
made  a  worse  investment  of  whip- 
cord. The  young  man  drew  himself 
back  upon  the  pavement,  and  sprang 
with  a  single  bound  upon  the  near 
horse's  quarters :  from  thence  to  the 
coach-box.  Contemporaneously  with 
his  arrival  there,  he  knocked  the 
coachman  out  of  his  seat  o"n  to  the 
roof  of  his  carriage,  and  then  seizing 
his  whip,  broke  it  in  one  moment  into 
a  stick,  and  belabored  the  prostrate 
charioteer  till  the  blood  poured  from 
him  in  torrents.  Then,  springing  to 
the  ground  with  one  bound,  he  turned 
the  horses'  heads,  belabored  them 
with  the  mutilated  whip,  and  off  they 
trotted  gently  home. 

Alexander  ran  to  Mrs.  Oldfield's 
carriage  window,  his  cheeks  burning, 
11 


his  eyes  blazing.  "  They  are  gone, 
madam,"  said  he,  with  rough  timidity. 
The  actress  looked  at  him,  and  smiled 
on  him,  and  said,  "  So  I  see,  sir,  and 
I  am  much  oblcegcd  to  you."  She 
was  then  about  to  draw  back  to  her 
corner,  but  suddenly  she  reflected, 
and,  half  beckoning  Alexander,  who 
had  drawn  back,  she  said,  "  My  dear, 
learn  for  me  whose  carriage  that  was." 
Alexander  turned  to  gain  the  infor- 
mation, but  it  was  volunteered  by 
one  of  the  by-standers. 

"  It  is  the  Duchess  of  Tadcaster's, 
Mrs.  Oldfield." 

"Ah!"  cried  Mrs.  Oldfield,  "the 
little  beast  \"  (this  polite  phrase 'she 
uttered  with  a  most  majestic  force,  of 
sovereign  contempt) ;  "  thank  you, 
sir ;  bid  Robert  drive  me  home,  my 
child"  (this  to  Alexander) ;  on  which 
a  by-stander  sang  out,  "  You  are  to 
drive  home,  Robert,  —  Buckingham 
Gate,  the  corner  house." 

At  this  sally  Mrs.  Oldfield  smiled 
with  perfect  composure,  but  did  not 
look  at  the  speaker.  As  the  carriage 
moved,  she  leaned  gently  forward, 
and  kissed  her  hand  like  a  queen  to 
Alexander,  then  nestled  into  her  cor- 
ner and  went  to  sleep. 

Alexander  did  nothing  of  the  sort 
that  night.  He  went  home  on  wings. 
He  could  not  go  in.  He  walked  up 
and  down  before  his  door  three  hours, 
before  he  could  go  to  so  vulgar  athing 
as  bed.  As  a  lover  will  read  over 
fifty  times  six  lines  of  love  from  the 
beloved  hand,  so  Alexander  acted 
over  and  over  the  little  scene  of  this 
night,  and  dwelt  on  every  tone,  word, 
look,  and  gesture  of  the  great  creature 
who  had  at  last  spoken  to  him, 
smiled  on  him,  thanked  him.  O  how 
happy  he  was  !  he  could  hardly  real- 
ize his  bliss.  "My  dear,"  —  but  had 
not  his  ears  deceived  him,  —  had  she 
really  called  him  "my  dear,"  and 
what  was  he  to  understand  by  so  un- 
expected an  address  ?  was  it  on  ac- 
count of  the  service  he  had  just  done 
her,  or  might  he  venture  to  hope  she 
had  noticed  his  face  in  the  theatre, 
sitting,  as  he  always  did,  at  one  place, 


242 


AET:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


at  the  side  of  the  second  row  of  the 
pit  ?  but  no  !  he  rejected  that  as  im- 
possible. Whatever  she  meant  by  it, 
his  blood  was  at  her  service  as  well 
as  his  heart.  He  blessed  her  with 
tears  in  his  eyes  for  using  such  heav- 
enly words  to  him  in  any  sense,  — 
"  my  dear,"  "  my  child."  He  framed 
these  words  in  his  heart. 

Alas!  he  little  thought  that  "my 
dear "  meant  literally  nothing ;  he 
was  not  aware  that  calling  every  liv- 
ing creature  "  my  dear  "  is  one  of  the 
nasty  little  tricks  of  the  stage,  —  like 
their  swearing  without  anger,  and 
their  shovelling  snuff  into  the  nose 
without  intermission,  in  the  innocent 
hope  of  making  every  sentence  intel- 
lectual, by  a  dirty  thing  done  mechan- 
ically, and  not  intellectually.  As  for 
"  my  child,"  that  was  better,  —  that 
was  at  least  a  trick  of  the  lady's 
own,  partly  caught  from  her  French 
acquaintances. 

For  some  clays  Alexander  was  in 
heaven.  He  fell  upon  his  tragedy,  he 
altered  it  by  the  light  the  stage  had 
given  him ;  above  all,  he  heightened 
and  improved  the  heroine,  he  touched 
her,  and  retouched  her  with  the  colors 
of  Oldfield,  —  and  this  done,  with 
trembling  hands  he  wrapped  it  in 
brown  paper,  addressed  it,  and  left  it 
at  her  own  house,  and  no  sooner  had 
Susan's  hand  touched  it  than  he  fled 
like  a  guilty  thing. 

You  see  it  was  his  first  love,  —  and 
she  he  loved  seemed  more  than  mortal 
to  him. 

And  now  came  a  reaction.  Days 
and  days  rolled  by,  and  no  more  ad- 
ventures came,  no  means  of  making 
acquaintance  with  one  so  high  above 
his  reach. 

He  was  still  at  the  stage  door,  but 
she  did  not  seem  to  recognize  him, 
and  he  dared  not  recall  himself  to  her 
recollection.  His  organization  was 
delicate,  —  he  began  to  fret  and  lose 
his  sleep,  and  at  last  his  pallor  and 
listlessness  attracted  the  not  very  keen 
eye  of  Timothy  Batcman.  Mr.  Bate- 
man  asked  him  twenty  times  if  any- 
thing was  the  matter,  —  twenty  tunes 


he  answered,  No  !  At  last  good,  wor- 
thy, commonplace  Bateman,  after  din- 
ner and  deep  thought,  said  one  day, 
"  Alexander,  I  've  found  out  what  it 
is."  Alexander  started. 

"  Money  melts  in  London,  yours  is 
gone  quicker  than  you  thought  it 
would,  —  my  poor  lad,  don't  you  fret. 
I've  got  £20  to  spare,  here  'tis. 
Your  father  will  never  know.  I  've 
been  yoitng  as  well  as  you."  Alexan- 
der grasped  the  good  old  fellow's  hand 
and  pressed  it  to  his  heart.  He  never 
looked  at  the  note,  but  he  looked  half 
tenderly,  half  wildly  into  the  old 
man's  eyes. 

Bateman  read  this  look  aright. 
"Ay,  out  with  it,  young  man,  he 
cried,  "  never  keep  a  grief  locked  up 
in  your  heart,  whilst  you  have  a  friend 
that  will  listen  to  it ;  that  is  an  old 
man's  advice." 

On  this  poor  Alexander's  story 
gushed  forth.  He  told  Bateman  the 
facts  I  have  told  you,  only  his  soul, 
and  all  the  feelings  he  had  gone 
through,  gushed  from  liis  heart  of 
hearts.  They  sat  till  one  in  the 
morning,  and  often  as  the  young  heart 
laid  bare  its  enthusiasm,  its  youth,  its 
anguish,  the  dry  old  lawyer  found  out 
there  was  a  soft  bit  left  in  his  own, 
that  sent  the  woman  to  the  door  of 
his  eyes ;  for  Alexander  told  his  story 
differently,  and  I  think  on  the  whole 
better  than  I  do.  I  will  just  indicate 
one  difference  between  us  two  as  nar- 
rators, —  he  told  it  like  blood  and  fire, 
I  tell  it  like  criticism  and  ice,  and  be 
hanged  to  me. 

Perhaps,  had  Alexander  told  the 
tale  as  I  do,  Bateman,  man  of  the 
world,  would  have  sneered  at  him,  or 
sternlv  advised  him  to  quit  this  folly 
and  whim ;  but  as  it  was,  Bateman 
was  touched,  and  mingled  pity  with 
good,  gentle,  but  firm  advice,  and 
poor  Alexander  was  grateful.  The 
poet  revered  the  commonplace  good 
man,  as  a  poet  ought,  and  humbly 
prayed  him  to  save  him  by  his  wis- 
dom. He  owned  that  he  was  mad ; 
that  he  was  indulging  a  hopeless  pas- 
sion; that  he  knew  the  great  trage- 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


243 


dian,  courted  by  the  noble  and  rich  of 
the  land,  would  never  condescend 
even  to  an  acquaintance  with  him. 
And  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears, 
"  O  good  Mr.  Bateman  !  "  cried  he, 
"  the  most  unfortunate  hour  of  my 
life  was  that  in  which  I  first  saw  her, 
for  she  will  be  my  death,  for  she  will 
never  permit  me  to  live  for  her,  and 
without  her  life  is  intolerable  to  me." 

This  last  feature  decided  Timothy 
Bateman;  the  next  morning  he 
wrote  to  Nathan  Oldworthy  a  full  ac- 
count of  all.  "  Come  up  and  take 
him  home  again,  for  Heaven's  sake." 

It  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  on  the 
poor  father,  but  he  moved  promptly ; 
in  two  hours  he  was  on  the  road  to 
London. 

Arrived  there,  he  straight  invaded 
Alexander.  The  poet,  luckily  for 
himself,  was  not  at  home.  He  then 
went  to  Bateman :  he  was  in  a  tower- 
ing passion. 

The  old  Puritanical  leaven  was 
scotched,  but  not  killed,  in  Coventry. 

In  a  general  way,  Nathan  looked 
on  love  as  no  worse  than  one  of  the 
Evil  One's  many  snares,  to  divert 
youth  from  law,  — but  love  of  an  ac- 
tress !  If  you  had  asked  Coventry 
whether  the  Play-House  or  the  -Pub- 
lic-House ruins  the  manners,  moral- 
ity, and  intellect  of  England,  Coven- 
try was  capable  of  answering,  "  The 
Play-House."  He  raged  against  the 
fool  and  the  jade,  as  he  succinctly, 
and  not  inaptly,  described  a  dramatic 
poet  and  an  actress. 

His  friend  endeavored  to  stop  the 
current  of  his  wrath,  in  vain  ;  the  at- 
tempt only  diverted  its  larger  cur- 
rent from  Alexander  to  the  Siren  who 
had  fascinated  him.  In  vain  Bateman 
assured  him  that  affairs  had  proceed- 
ed to  no  length  between  the  parties  ; 
the  other  snubbed  him,  called  him  a 
fool,  said  he  knew  nothing  of  the 
world,  and  assured  him  that,  if  any- 
thing came  of  it,  she  should  have 
nothing  from  the  Oldworthys  but 
thirty  pence  per  week,  the  parish  al- 
lowance (Nathan's  ideas  of  love  were 
as  primitive  as  Alexander's  were  po- 


etic), and  lastly,  bouncing  np,  he  an- 
nounced that  he  was  going  to  see  the 
hussy,  and  force  her  to  give  up  her 
Delilah  designs. 

At  this  poor  Bateman  was  in  dis- 
may ;  he  represented  to  this  mad  bull 
that  Mrs.  Oldfield  was  "  on  the 
windy  side  of  the  law,"  that  there 
were  no  proofs  she  had  done  any- 
thing more  than  every  woman  would 
do  if  she  was  clever  enough,  viz.  turn 
every  man's  head  ;  he  next  reminded 
him  of  her  importance,  and  implored 
him  at  least  to  be  prudent.  "  My 
dear  friend,"  said  he,  "  there  are  at 
least  a  score  of  gentlemen  in  this 
town,  who  would  pass  their  swords 
through  an  old  attorney,  as  they 
would  through  a  mad  dog,  only  to 
have  a  smile  or  a  compliment  from 
this  lady." 

This  last  argument  was  ill  chosen. 
The  old  Puritan  was  game  to  the 
backbone;  he  flung  Mrs.  Oldfield's 
champions  a  grim  grin  of  defiance, 
and  marched  out  to  invade  that  lady, 
and  save  his  offspring. 

Now,  the  said  Mrs.  Oldfield,  wish- 
ing to  be  very  quiet,  because  she  was 
preparing  to  play  for  the  champion- 
ship of  the  stage,  and  was  studying 
Statira,  had  given  her  footman  or- 
ders to  admit  no  living  soul,  upon 
any  pretence. 

Oldworthy,  who  had  heard  in  Cov- 
entry that  people  in  London  are  al- 
ways at  home  if  their  servants  say 
they  are  out,  pushed  past  the  man ; 
the  man  followed  him  remonstrating. 
When  they  reached  the  antechamber, 
he  thought  it  was  time  to  do  more,  so 
he  laid  his  hand  on  the  intruder's 
collar ;  —  then  ensued  a  short  but 
very  brisk'scuffle ;  the  ladies  heard,  to 
their  dismay,  a  sound  as  of  a  foot- 
man falling  from  the  top  to  the  bot- 
tom of  a  staircase ;  and  the  next  mo- 
ment, in  jackboots,  splashed  with 
travel,  an  immense  hat  of  a  fashion 
long  gone  by,  his  dark  cheek  flushed 
with  anger,  and  his  eyes  shooting 
sombre  lightning  from  under  their 
thick  brow's,  Nathan  Oldworthy 
strode  like  wildfire  into  the  room. 


244 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


Susan  screamed,  and  Anne  tnrned 
pale,  but,  recovering  herself,  she  said, 
with  a  wonderful  show  of  spirit, 
"  How  dare  you  intrude  on  me  ?  — 
Keep  close  to  me,  stupid  ! "  was  her 
trembling  aside  to  Susan. 

"  I  'm  used  to  enter  people's  houses, 
whether  they  will  or  not,"  was  the 
gruff  reply. 

"  Your  business,  sir  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Oldfield,  with  affected  calmness. 

"  It  is  not  fit  for  that  child  to  hear," 
was  the  answer. 

Anne  Oldfield  was  wonderfully  in- 
telligent, and  even  in  this  remark  she 
saw  the  man,  if  a  barbarian,  was  not 
a  ruffian  at  bottom.  She  looked  to- 
wards Susan. 

Susan,  interpreting  her  look,  de- 
clined to  leave  her  alone  "with, 
with  —  " 

"  A  brute,  I  suppose,"  said  Nathan, 
coarsely. 

The  artist  measured  the  man  with 
her  eye. 

"  He  who  feels  himself  a  brute  is  on 
the  way  to  be  a  man,"  said  she,  with 
genuine  dignity ;  so  saying,  she  dis- 
missed Susan  with  a  gesture. 

"  You  are  the  play-acting  woman, 
are  n't  you  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  am  the  tragedian,  sir,"  replied 
she,  "  whose  time  is  precious." 

"  I  '11  lose  no  time,  —  I  'm  an  at- 
torney, —  the  first  in  Coventry.  I  'm 
Nathan  Oldworthy.  My  son's  educa- 
tion has  been  given  him  under  my 
own  eye,  —  I  taught  him  the  customs 
of  the  country,  and  the  civil  law.  He 
is  to  be  a  sergeant  at-law,  and  a  ser- 
geant-at-law  he  shall  be  —  " 

"  I  consent,  for  one,"  said  Oldfield, 
demurely. 

"  And"  then  we  can  play  into  one 
another's  hands,  as  should  be." 

"  I  have  no  opposition  to  offer  to 
this  pretty  little  scheme  of  the  Old 
Somethings,  —  father  and  son." 

"  Oldworthys !  no  opposition ! 
when  he  has  n't  been  once  to  West- 
minster, and  every  night  to  the  play- 
house." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  lady,  "  I  see !  the 
old  story." 


"  The  very  day  the  poor  boy  came 
here,"  resumed  Nathan,  "  there  was  a 
tragedy  play;  so,  because  a  woman 
sighed  and  burned  for  sport,  the  fool 
goes  home  and  sighs  and  burns  in  ear- 
nest, can't  eat  his  victuals,  flings  away 
his  prospects,  and  thinks  of  nothing 
but  this  Nance  Oldfield." 

He  uttered  this  appellation  with 
rough  contempt;  and  had  the  actress 
been  a  little  one,  this  descent  to  Nance 
Oldfield  would  have  mortified  or  en- 
raged her.  But  its  effect  on  the  great 
Oldfield  was  different,  and  somewhat 
singular  ;  she  opened  her  lovely  eyes 
on  him.  "  Nance  Oldfield !  'r  cried 
she ;  "  O  sir !  nobody  has  called  me 
that  name  since  I  left  my  little  native 
town." 

"  Have  n't  they,  though  ? "  said 
the  rough  customer,  more  gently,  re- 
sponding to  her  heavenly  tone^,  rath- 
er than  to  the  sentiment,  which  he  in 
no  degree  comprehended. 

"  No ! "  said  Oldfield,  with  an  ill- 
used  ^Eolian-harp  note. 

Here  the  attornev  began  to  suspect 
she  was  diverting  fiim  from  the  point, 
and  with  a  curl  of  the  lip,  and  a  fine 
masculine  contempt  for  all  subter- 
fuges not  on  sheepskin,  — "  You  had 
better  say  you  do  not  know  all  this," 
cried  he. 

"  Not  I,"  was  the  reply.  "  My 
good  sir,  your  son  has  left  you  to  con- 
fide to  me  the  secret  of  his  attach- 
ment :  you  have  discharged  the  com- 
mission, Sir  Pandarus  of  Troy,"  add- 
ed she,  with  a  world  of  malicious  fun 
in  her  jewel-like  eye. 

"  Nathan  Oldworthy  of  Coventry, 
I  tell  ye ! "  put  in  the  angry  sire. 

"And  it  is  now  my  duty  to  put 
some  questions  to  you,"  resumed 
the  actress.  "Is  your  son  hand- 
some 7  "  said  she,  in  a  sly  half- whis- 
per. 

"  Is  not  he  ?  "  answered  gaunt 
simplicity,  "  and  well  built  too,  —  he 
is  like  me,  they  say." 

"  There  is  a  point  on  which  I  am 
very  particular.  Has  he  nice  teeth  ? 
—  upon  your  honor,  now." 

"  White  as  milk,    ma'am ;    and  a 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


245 


smile  that  warms  your  heart  up ;  fresh 
color;  there's  not  such  a  lad  in 
Coventry."  Here  the  old  boy  caught 
sight  of  a  certain  poetical  epistle, 
which,  if  you  remember,  was  in  Mrs. 
Oldfield's*  hands. 

"  And  pray,  madam,"  said  he,  with 
smooth  craft,  "  does  Alexander  Old- 
worthy  never  write  to  you  ?  " 

"  Never  !  "  was  her  answer. 

"  She  says-  never  !  "  thundered  Na- 
than, "  and  there  is  his  letter  in  her 
very  hand,  —  a  superb  handwriting; 
what  a  waste  of  talent  to  write  to  you 
with  it,  instead  of  engrossing ;  what 
docs  the  fool  say  ?  "  and  he  snatched 
the  letter  rudely  from  her,  and  read 
out  poor  Alexander,  with  the  lungs 
of  a  S  ten  tor. 

Gracious  me  !  if  I  was  puzzled  to 
show  the  reader  how  Susan  read  the 
Mannering  prose,  how  on  earth  shall 
I  make  him  hear  and  see  Old  worthy 
Pere  read  Oldworthy  Fils,  his  rhymes; 
but  I  will  attempt  a  faint  adumbra- 
tion, wherein,  Glorious  Apollo  !  from 
on  high  befriend  us  ! 

"  My  soul  hangs  trembling,"  — 
(full  stop.)  "On  that  magic  voice, 
grieves  with  your  woe,"  —  (full  stop.) 
"  Exults  when  you  rejoice.  A  gold- 
en chain,"  —  (Here  he  cast  a  look  of 
perplexity. )  "  I  feel  but  cannot  see," 
—  (here  he  began  to  suspect  Alexan- 
der of  insanity.)  "  Binds  earth  to 
Heaven," —  (of  impiety,  ditto.)  "  It 
ties  my  heart  to  thee  like  a  sunflow- 
er." And  now  the  reader  wore  the 
ill-used  look  of  one  who  had  been 
betrayed  into  a  labyrinth  of  unmean- 
ing syllables ;  but  at  this  juncture, 
•thanks  to  his  sire,  Alexander  Old- 
worthy  began  to  excite  Mrs.  Old- 
field's  interest. 

"And  that  poetry  is  his?"  said 
the  actress. 

"  Poetry  ?  no  !  How  could  my  son 
write  poetry  1  I  '11  be  hanged  if 't 
is  n't  though,  for  all  the  lines  begin 
with  a  capital  letter." 

Oldfield  took  the  paper  from  him. 
"  Listen,"  said  she,  and,  with  a  heav- 
enly cadence  and  expression,  she 
spoke  the  lines  thus  :  — 


"My  soul  hangs  trembling  on  that  magic 
voice, 

Grieves  with  your  woe,  exults  when  you  re- 
joice ; 

A  golden  chain  I  feel,  but  cannot  see, 

Binds  earth  to  Heaven,  —  it  ties  my  heart 
to  thee, 

Like  a  sunflower,  etc.,  etc. 

"  What  do  you  call  that,  eh  ?  " 

"  Why,  honey  dropping  from  the 
comb,"  said  the  astounded  lawyer,  to 
whom  the  art  of  speech  was  entirely 
unknown,  until  that  moment,  as  it  is 
to  millions  of  the  human  race.  "  It 
is  honey  dropping  from  the  comb," 
repeated  Nathan.  "  I  see,  he  has 
been  and  bought  it  ready  made,  and 
it  has  cost  him  a  pretty  penny,  no 
doubt.  So  now  his  money's  going 
to  the  dogs,  too." 

"  And  these  sentiments,  these  ac- 
cents of  poetry  and  truth,  that  have 
reached  my  heart,  this  daily  homage, 
that  would  flatter  'a  queen,  do  I  owe 
it  to  your  son  ?  O  sir !  " 

"  Good  gracious  heavens  !  "  roared 
the  terrified  father ;  "  don't  you  go 
and  fall  in  love  with  him ;  and,  now 
I  think  on  't,  that  is  what  /  have  been 
working  for  ever  since  I  came  here. 
Cut  it  short.  I  came  for  my  son,  and 
I  will  have  him  back,  if  you  please. 
Where  is  he  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  know  1  "  said  the  lady, 
pettishly. 

"  Why,  he  follows  you  every- 
where." 

"  Except  here,  where  he  never  will 
follow  me,  unless  his  father  teaches 
him  houscbreaking  iinder  the  head  of 
civil  law." 

At  this  sudden  thrust,  Oldworthy 
blushed.  "  Well,  ma'am  ! "  stam- 
mered he,  "  I  was  a  little  precipitate  ; 
but,  my  good  lady,  pray  tell  me, 
when  did  you  last  see  him  ?  " 

"  I  neveV  saw  him  at  all,  which  I 
regret,"  added  she,  satirically;  "be- 
cause you  say  he  resembles  his  fa- 
ther." Nathan  was  a  particularly 
ugly  dog. 

"  She  is  very  polite,"  thought  Na- 
than. "  But,"  objected  he,  civilly, 
"  you  must  have  learned  from  his  let- 
ters." 


246 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


"  That  they  arc  not  signed  !  "  said 
she,  handing  the  poetical  epistle  to 
him,  with  great  significance. 

Mr.  Nathan  Oldworthy  began  now 
to  doubt  whether  he  was  sur  le  bon 
terrain  in  his  present  proceedings  ; 
and  the  error  in  which  he  had  detect- 
ed himself  made  him  suddenly  sus- 
pect his  judgment  and  general  re- 
port on  another  head.  "  What  an 
extraordinary  thing  ! "  said  he,  blunt- 
ly. "  Perhaps  you  are  an  honest  wo- 
man after  all,  ma'am  ! " 

"  Sir !  "  said  Oldfield,  with  a  most 
tragic  air. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  ma'am !  I 
ask  your  pardon  !  "  cried  the  other, 
terrified  by  the  royal  pronunciation 
of  this  monosyllable.  "  Country  man- 
ners, ma'am  !  that  is  all !  We  do 
speak  so  straightforward  down  in  Cov- 
entry." 

"  Yes  !  but  if  you  speak  so  straight- 
forward here,  you  will  be  sent  to  Cov- 
entry." 

"  I  '11  take  care  not,  madam !  I  '11 
take  great  care  not  !  "  said  the  other, 
hastily.  Then  he  paused,  —  a  light 
rose  gradually  to  his  eyes.  "  Sent  to 
Coventry !  ha  !  haw  !  ho  !  But,  mad- 
am, this  love  will  be  his  ruin :  it  will 
rob  him  of  his  profession,  which  he 
detests,  and  of  a  rich  heiress  whom 
he  can't  abide !  Since  I  came  here,  I 
think  better  of  play-actors ;  but,  con- 
sider, madam,  we  don't  like  our  blood 
to  come  down  in  the  world  ! " 

"  It  would  be  cruel  to  lower  an  attor- 
ney," replied  the  play-actress,  looking 
him  demurely  in  the  face. 

"  You  are  considerate,  madam  !  " 
replied  he,  gratefully.  He  added, 
with  manly  compunction,  "  More  so, 
I  fear,  than  I  have  deserved." 

"  Mais !  il  me  desarme  cet  homme ! " 
cried  the  sprightly  Oldfield,  ready  to 
scteam  with  laughter. 

"  Are  you  speaking  to  me,  ma'am  ? " 
said  Nathan,  severely. 

"  No,  that  was  an  '  aside.'  Go  on, 
my  good  soul !  " 

''  Then  forgive  the  tronble/the  agi- 
tation, of  a  father :  his  career,  his 
happiness,  is  in  danger." 


"  Now,  why  did  you  not  begin  with 
that  ?  it  would  have  saved  your  time 
and  mine.  Favor  me  with  your  at- 
tention, sir,  for  a  moment,"  said  the 
line  lady,  witli  grave  courtesy. 

"  I  will,  madam,"  said  the  other, 
respectfully. 

"  Mr.  Oldworthy,  first  you  are  to 
observe,  that  I  have,  by  the  constitu- 
tions of  these  realms,  as  much  right 
to  fall  in  love  with  your  son,  or  even 
with  yourself,  as  he'oryou  have  to  do 
with  me." 

"  So  you  have,  I  never  thought  of 
that;  but  don't  ye  do  it,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  if  'tis  n't  done  already." 

"  But  I  should  have  been  inclined, 
even  before  your  arrival,  to  waive  that 
right,  out  of  regard  for  my  own  inter- 
est and  reputation,  especially  the  for- 
mer :  and  now  you  have  won  my 
heart,  and  I  enter  into  your  feelings, 
and  place  myself  at  your  service — " 

"  You  are  very  good,  madam  ! 
Now,  why  do  they  go  and  run  play- 
actors down  so  ?  " 

"  You  are  aware,  sir,  that  we  play- 
actors have  not  an  idea  of  our  own  in 
our  skulls  :  our  art  is  to  execute 
beautifully  the  ideas  of  those  who 
think  :  now,  you  are  a  man  of  busi- 
ness ;  you  will  therefore  be  pleased  to 
give  me  your  instructions,  and  yon 
shall  see  those  instructions  executed 
better  than  they  are  down  in  Coven- 
try. You  want  me  to  prevent  your 
son  from  loving  me  !  I  consent. 
Tell  me  how  to  do  it." 

"  Madam !  "  said  Nathan  ;  "  you 
have  put  your  finger  on  the  very 
point!  What  a  lawyer  you  would 
have  made !  Madam,  I  thank  you  ! 
Very  well,  then  you  must  —  but,  no, 
that"  will  make  him  worse,  perhaps. 
And  again,  you  can't  leave  off  play- 
ing, can  you  ?  because  that  is  your 
business  you  know,  —  dear  me !  Ah ! 
I  '11  tell  "you  how  to  bring  it  about. 
Let  me  see  —  no! — yes!  —  no!  drat 
it!" 

"Your  instructions  are  not  suffi- 
ciently clear,  sir !  "  suggested  Mrs. 
Oldfield. 

"  Well,  madam !  it  is  not  so  easy 


AET:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


247 


as  I  thought,  and  I  don't  see  what 
instructions  I  am  to  give  you,  until 

—  until  —  " 

"  Until  I  tell  you  what  to  tell  me, 

—  that 's  fair.     Well,  give  me  a  day 
to  think.     I  am    so    busy    now.     I 
must  play  my  best  to-night !  " 

"  But  he  '11  be  there,"  said  Nathan, 
in  dismay ;  "  you  '11  play  your  best : 
you  '11  burn  him  to  a  cinder.  I  '11  go 
to  him."  He  ran  to  the  window,  in- 
forming his  companion  that,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  was  going  to 
take  a  coach.  But  he  had  no  sooner 
arrived  at  the  window,  than  he  made 
a  sudden  point,  and  beckoned  the  lady 
to  him,  without  removing  his  eyes 
from  some  object  on  which  he  glared 
down,  with  a  most  singular  expression 
of  countenance.  She  came  to  his 
side.  He  directed  her  eyes  to  the  ob- 
ject. "  Look  there,  ma'am  !  look 
there ! "  She  peeped,  and,  standing 
by  a  hosier's  shop,  at  the  corner  of 
the  street,  she  descried  a  young  man, 
engaged  as  follows :  His  hat  was  in 
his  hand,  and  on  the  hat  was  a  little 
piece  of  paper.  He  was  alternately 
writing  on  this,  and  looking  upward 
for  inspiration. 

"  Is  that  he  1 "  whispered  Mrs.  Old- 
field. 

"Yes!  that's  your  man, — bare- 
headed, locking  up  into  the  sky,  and 
does  n't  see  how  it  rains." 

"  But  he  's  very  handsome,  Mr. 
Oldworthy,  and  you  said  he  was  like 

—  hem  !  yes,  he  is  very  handsome." 
"  Is  n't  he,  madam  ! " 

He  was  handsome, — his  rich  chest- 
nut curls  flowed  down  his  neck  in 
masses ;  his  face  was  oval ;  his  eyes 
full  of  color  and  sentiment ;  and  in 
him  the  purple  light  of  youth  was 
brightened  by  the  electric  light  of  ex- 
pression and  charming  sensibility. 

The  strangely  assorted  pair  in  our 
scene  held  on  by  one  another,  the 
better  to  inspect  the  young  poet,  who 
little  thought  what  a  pair  of  critics 
were  in  store  for  him. 

"  What  a  bright,  intelligent  look 
the  silly  goose  has ! "  said  the  ac- 
tress. 


"Hasn't  he?  the  dear  —  idiot!" 
said  the  parent. 

"  Is  he  waiting  for  you,  sir  ?  "  said 
she,  with  affected  simplicity. 

"No,"  replied  he,  with  zeal;  "it's 
you  he  is  waiting  for." 

Alexander  began  to  walk  slowly 
past  the  house,  looking  up  to  heaven 
every  now  and  then  for  inspiration, 
and  then  looking  down  and  scribbling 
a  bit,  like  a  hen  drinking,  you  know ; 
and,  thus  occupied,  he  stalked  to  and 
fro,  passing  and  repassing  beneath 
the  criticising  eyes,  —  at  sight  of 
which  pageant  a  father's  fingers  be- 
gan to  work,  and, "  Madam,"  said  he, 
with  a  calmness  too  marked  to  be 
genuine,  "  do  let  me  fling  one  little 
—  chair  at  his  silly  head." 

"  No,  indeed," 

"A  pillow,  then?-" 

"  O  Lud,  no !  —  you  don't  know 
these  boys,  sir !  he  would  take  that  as 
an  overture  of  affection  from  the 
house.  Stay :  will  you  obey  me,  or 
will  you  not  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  will!  —  how  can  I 
help  ? "  and  he  grinned  with  horrible 
amiability. 

"  Then  I  will  cure  your  son." 

"  You  will,  you  promise  me  ?  " 

"  On  the  honor  of —  a  play-actor  !  " 
and  she  offered  him,  with  a  world  of 
grace,  the  loveliest  hand  going  at 
that  era. 

"  Of  an  angel,  I  think,"  said  the 
subjugated  barbarian. 

Mrs.  Oldfield  then  gave  him  a 
short  sketch  of  the  idea  that  had  oc- 
curred to  her.  "  Your  son,  sir,"  said 
she,  "  is  in  love  by  the  road  of  imagi- 
nation and  taste,  —  he  has  seen  upon 
the  stage  a  being  more  like  a  poet's 
dream  than  any  young  woman  down 
in  Coventry,  —  and  he  overrates  her  ; 
I  will  contrive  that  in  ten  minutes  he 
shall  underrate  her.  I  will  also  find 
means  to  wound  his  vanity,  which  is 
inordinate  in  all  his  sex,  and  gigantic 
in  the  versifying  part  of  it;  and 
then,  sir,  I  promise  you  that  your 
son's  love,  so  fresh,  so  fiery,  so  lofty, 
so  humble,  will  either  turn  to  hatred 
or  contempt,  or  else  quietly  evap- 


248 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


orate  like  a  mist,  and  vanish  like  a 
morning  dream.  Ah!" — (and  she 
could  not  help  sighing  a  little). 

Susan  was  then  called,  and  directed 
to  show  Mr.  Nathan  Oldworthy  out 
the  back  way,  that  he  might  avoid 
the  encounter  of  his  son.  The  said 
Nathan,  accordingly,  marched  slap 
away,  in  four  great  stride?;  but  th* 
next  moment  the  door  burst  open, 
and  he  returned  in  four  more,  —  he 
took  up  a  position  opposite  his  fair 
entertainer,  and,  with  much  gravity, 
executed  a  solemn,  hut  marvellously 
grotesque  bow,  intended  to  express 
gratitude  and  civility;  this  done,  he 
recovered  body,  and  strode  away 
again,  slap-dash. 


Spirits  like  Alexander's  are  greatly 
depressed  and  greatly  elevated  with- 
out proportionate  change  in  the  ex- 
ternal causes  of  joy  and  grief.  It  is 
theirs  to  view  the  same  set  of  facts, 
rose-color  one  day,  lurid  another. 
Two  days  ago,  Alexander  had  been 
in  despondence;  to-day  hope  was  in 
the  ascendant,  and  his  destiny  ap- 
peared to  him  all  bathed  in  sunshine. 
He  was  rich  in  indistinct  but  gay 
hopes ;  these  hopes  had  whispered  to 
him  that,  after  all,  an  alliance  be- 
tween a  dramatic  poet  and  a  tragedian 
was  a  natural  one,  —  that  perhaps,  on 
reflection,  she  he  loved  might  not 
think  it  so  very  imprudent.  He  felt 
convinced  she  had  read  "  Berenice," 
—  she  would  see  the  alterations  in 
the  heroine's  part,  and  that  love  had 
dictated  them.  She  would  find  there 
was  one  being  that  comprehended 
her.  That,  and  his  verses,  would 
surely  plead  his  cause.  Then  he 
loved  her  so,  —  who  could  love  her 
as  he  did  1  Some  day  she  would  feel 
that  no  heart  could  love  her  so,  — 
and  then  he  would  say  to  her,  "  I  am 
truth  and  nature, —  you  are  beauty 
and  music;  united,  we  should  con- 
quer the  world,  and  be  the  world  to 
one  another  !  "  Poor  boy  ! 

He  was  walking  and  dreaming  thus 
beneath  her  window,  when  his  ear 


caught   the   sound    of   that   window 
opening  ;  he  instantly  cowered  against 
the  wall,  hoping  this  happy  d'av  to 
see  the  form  he  loved,  himself  unseen, 
when,  to  his  immeasurable  surprise, 
a  beautiful  girl  put  her  head  out  of 
j  the  window,  and  called  softly  to  him. 
|  H«  took  no  notice,  because  it  was  in- 
]  audible.     She  had  to  repeat  the  call 
:  before  he  could  realize  his  good  for- 
tune; the   signal,  however,  was   un- 
mistakable, and  soon  after  the  door 
i  opened,  and  there  was  pretty  Susan, 
blushing.     Alexander  ran  to  her,  she 
opened  the  door  wider,  he   entered, 
believing  in  magic  for  the  first  time. 
Susan  took  him  up  stairs,  —  he  said 
nothing,  —  he  could  not,  —  she   did 
not  speak,   because   slie   thought  he 
ought  to.    At  last  they  reached  a 
richly  furnished  room,  where  Statira's 
|  dress  lay  upon  a  chair,  and  a  theatrical 
diadem  upon   a   table.     Alexander's 
heart   leaped   at   sight  of  these ;   he 
!  knew,  then,  where  he  was  ;  he  turned 
j  hot  and  cold,  and  trembled  violently. 
j  The  first  word  Susan   said   did  not 
calm  his  agitation.     "  There  is  a  lady 
here,"  said  she,  "  who  has  something 
to  say  to  you." 

Now  it  must  be  remembered  that 
Susan  considered  Alexander  her  un- 
doubted property  ;  and  when  she  -was 
told  to  introduce  him,  she  "could  not 
help  thinking  how  kind  it  was  of  her 
cousin  to  take  her  part,  and  bring  to 
the  point  a  young  gentleman  who, 
charming  in  other  respects,  appeared 
to  her  sadly  deficient  in  audacity. 
"  Sit  down,"  said  Susan,  smiling. 

0  no !  he  could  not  sit  down  here ! 
Susan  pitied  his  timidity  and  his 
discomposure ;  and,  to  put  both  him 
and  herself  out  of  pain  the  sooner, 
she  left  him  .and  went  to  announce 
his  presence  to  her  cousin  and  guar- 
dian, as  she  now  considered  her. 

Alexander  was  left  alone,  to  all 
appearance ;  in  reality,  he  was  in  a 
crowd,  —  a  crowd  of  "  thick-coming 
fancies."  He  was  to  breathe  the 
same  air  as  she,  to  be  by  her  side, 
whom  the  world  adored  at  a  distance  ; 
he  was  to  see  her  burst  on  him  like 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


24D 


the  sun,  and  to  feel  more  strongly 
than  ever  how  far  his  verse  fell  short 
of  the  goddess  who  inspired  it ;  he 
half  wished  to  retreat  from  his  too 
great  happiness.  Suddenly  a  rustle 
in  the  apartment  awakened  him  from 
his  ricli  rcvcry ;  he  looked  up,  and 
there  was  a  lady  with  her  eyes  fixed 
on  him. 

The  lady  had  on  what  might,  with- 
out politeness,  but  with  truth,  be 
called  a  dressing-gown  ;  it  was  os- 
tentatiously large  everywhere,  espe- 
cially at  the  waist.  The  lady's  hair, 
or  what  seemed  her  hair,  was  rough, 
and  ill  done  up,  and  a  great  cap  of 
flaunty  design  surmounted  her  head. 
On  her  feet  were  old  slippers. 

"  Good  day,  sir ! "  said  she,  dryly. 

Alexander  bowed.  "  Madam,  I 
wait  Mrs.  Oldfield." 

"  Tete-a-tete  with  your  muse." 
Alexander's  poetical  works  were  in 
her  hand. 

"  She  is  my  muse,  madam ! "  re- 
plied he  ;  "  she  alone.  Are  you  not 
proud  of  her,  madam  1  for  I  see  by 
your  likeness  that  you  arc  some  rela- 
tion." 

The  lady  burst  out  laughing. 
"  That 's  a  compliment  to  my  theatri- 
cal talent ;  I  am  the  party." 

"  You  Mrs.  Oldfield !  the  great 
Mrs.  Oldfield !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  What,  you  come 
from  the  country,  I  suppose,  and 
think  we  are  to  be  always  on  the 
stilts,  when  we  are  not  paid  for  it. 
You  look  as  if  you  were  afraid  of 
me." 

"  0  no,  madam ;  and,  as  you  say, 
it  shows  how  great  your  talent  is." 

"  You  want  Jo  speak  to  me,  my 
lad." 

Alexander  blushed  to  the  temples. 
"  Yes,  madam  !  "  faltered  he,  "  you 
have  divined  my  ambition.  I  have 
been  presumptuous,  — but  I  saw  you 
on  the  tragic  scene,  —  the  admiration 
you  inspired,  —  I  fear  I  have  impor- 
tuned you,  —  but  my  hope,  my  irre- 
sistible desire  —  " 

"  There,  I  know  what  you  mean," 
said  she,  with  an  affectation  of  vulgar 
11* 


I  good  nature,  "you  want  an  order  for 
the  pit  •? " 

"  I  want  an  order  for  the  pit  ?  " 
gasped  Alexander,  faintly. 

"  Well,  ain't  I  going  to  give  you 
one,"  answered  she,  as  sharp  as  a 
needle;  "but  mind,  you  must  — " 
here  she  imitated  vehement  ap- 
plause. 

"  O  madam !  I  need  no  such  in- 
junction," cried  Alexander;  "  each  of 
your  achievements  on  the  stage  seems 
to  be  greater  than  the  last."  Then, 
trembling,  blushing,  and  eloquent  as 
fire,  he  poured  out  his  admiration  of 
her,  and  her  great  art :  "  The  others 
are  all  puppets,  played  «by  rule  around 
you,  the  queen  of  speech  and  poetry ; 
your  pathos  is  so  true,  your  sensibility 
so  profound;  yours  are  real  tears  ; 
you  lead  our  sorrow  in  person ;  you 
fuse  your  soul  into  those  great  char- 
acters, and  art  becomes  nature.  You. 
are  the  thing  you  seem,  and  it  is  plain 
each  lofty  emotion  passes  through  that 
princely  heart  on  its  way  to  those 
golden  lips  ! " 

Oldfield,  with  all  her  self-command, 
could  not  quite  resist  the  eloquence  of 
the  heart  and  brain.  •  She,  too,  now 
'blushed  a  little,  and  her  lovely  bosom 
heaved  slowly,  but  high,  as  the  poet 
poured  the  music  of  his  praise  into 
her  ears ;  then  she  stole  a  look  at  him 
from  under  her  long  lashes,  and  sipped 
his  beauty  and  his  freshness.  She 
could  not  help  looking  at  this  forbid- 
den fruit.  As  she  looked,  she  did  feel 
how  hard,  how  cruel  it  was,  that  she 
was  not  to  be  allowed  to  play  with  this 
young,  fresh  heart ;  to  see  it  throb 
with  hopes  and  fears,  and  love,  jeal- 
ousy, anguish,  joy,  and  finally  to  break 
it,  and  fiing  the  pieces  to  the  Devil; 
but  she  was  a  singular  character, — 
she  was  the  concentrated  essence  of 
female  in  all  points,  except  one :  she 
was  a  woman  of  her  word,  or,  as  some 
brutes  would  say,  no  woman  at  all 
in  matters  of  good  faith.  She  stood 
pledged  to  the  attorney,  and  therefore, 
recovering  herself,  she  took  up  Alex- 
ander thus : — 

"  No,    thank   you,  emotions  pass 


250 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


through  my  —  what 's  the  name  — 
well,  you  are  green  —  you  don't  come 
from  the  country  — you  are  from 
Wales.  I  must  enlighten*  you ;  sit 
down,  sit  down,  I  tell  you.  The  tears 
my  boy,  are  as  real  as  the  rest,  —  as 
the  sky,  and  that 's  pasteboard,  —  as 
the  sun,  and  he  is  three  candles, 
smirking  upon  all  nature,  which  is 
canvas,  —  they  are  as  real  as  our- 
selves, the  tragedy  queens,  with  our 
cries,  our  sighs,  and  our  sobs,  all 
measured  out  to  us  by  the  five-foot 
rule.  Reality,  young  gentleman, 
that  begins  when  the  curtain  falls,  — 
and  we  wipe  off  our  profound  sensibil- 
ity along  with  «ur  rouge,  our  whiting, 
and  our  beauty  spots. 

"  Impossible !  "  cried  the  poet ; 
"  those  tears,  those  dew-drops  on  the 
tree  of  poetry  ! " 

He  was  requested  not  to  make  her 
"  die  of  laughing "  with  his  tears ; 
his  common  sense  was  appealed  to. 
"  Now,  my  good  soul,  if  I  was  to  vex 
myself  night  after  night  for  Clytem- 
nestra  and  Co.,  don't  you  see  that  I 
should  not  hold  together  long  1  No, 
thank  you  !  I  've  got  '  Nance  Old- 
field  '  to  take  care  of,  and  what 's 
Hecuba  to  her  ?  For  my  part,"  con- 
tinued this  frank  lady,  "I  don't  un- 
derstand half  the  authors  give  us  to 
say." 

"  O  yes,  you  do  !  you  write  upon 
our  eyes  and  ears  more  than  half  ot 
all  the  author  gains  credit  for,  —  the 
noblest  sentiments  gain  more  from 
your  tongue  than  the  pen,  great  as  it 
is,  could  ever  fling  upon  paper,  —  I 
am  unworthy  to  be  your  companion  ! " 

"  Nonsense  !  do  you  really  think  I 
am  like  those  black  parrots  of  trage- 
dy ?  —  fine  company  I  should  be !  — 
"he,  he  !  No  !  we  are  like  other  wo- 
men, you  can  court  us  without  get- 
ting a  dagger  stuck  into  you."  She 
then  informed  him  that  the  represen- 
tatives of  Desdemona,  Bclvidera,  Cor- 
delia, and  Virgin  Purity  in  general 
had  all  as  many  beaux  as  they  could  j 
lay  their  hands  on,  —  that  she  had 
twenty  at  the  present  moment :  that 
he  could  join  that  small  but  select 


band,  if  he  chose,  secure  of  this,  that, 
whether  a  fortunate  or  unfortunate 
lover,  there  would  be  companions  of 
his  fate.  Then,  suddenly  interrupting 
her  disclosures,  she  offered  him  a  snuff- 
box, and  said  dryly,  "  D'  ye  snuff?  " 

Alexander's  eye  dilated  with  hor- 
ror. She  observed  him,  and  explained, 
"  There 's  no  doing  without  it,  in  our 
business,  we  get  so  tired ! "  Here  she 
yawned  as  only  actresses  yawn,  — 
like  one  going  out  of  the  world  in 
four  pieces.  "  We  get  so  tired  of  the 
whole  concern  ;  this  is  the  real  source 
of  our  inspiration,"  said  she,  taking 
a  pinch,  "  or  how  should  we  ever  rise 
to  the  poet's  level,  and  launch  all 
those  awful  execrations  they  love  so  ? 
as,  for  instance,  —  Ackishoo  !  —  God 
bless  you ! " 

Alexander  groaned  aloud. 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  thought  his  tormen- 
tor, "  how  he  takes  it  to  heart !  " 

"  Why,  ma'am,  a  fall  from  heaven 
to  earth  is  a  considerable  descent." 

"  You  look  pale,  my  child,"  re- 
sumed the  tormentor.  "  No  break- 
fast, perhaps.  I  'd  offer  you  some  in 
a  minute,  but  the  fact  is,  you  must 
forgive  me ;  but  I  look  to  every  pen- 
ny ;  when  the  rainy  day  comes  I  shall 
be  ready " ;  and  she  brought  both 
hands  down  upon  her  knees,  in  a 
way  the  imitated  vulgarity  of  which 
would  have  made  any  one  scream 
with  laughter  that  had  seen  her 
game  ;  but  it  was  all  genuine  to  our 
poor  poet,  and  crushed  him. 

Having  opened  this  vein  of  self-de- 
preciation, she  proceeded  to  work  it. 
She  poked  him  with  one  finger,  and, 
looking  slyly  with  half-shut  eye  at 
him,  she  announced  ^herself  the  au- 
thoress of  some  very  curious  calcula- 
tions, the  object  of  which  was  to  dis- 
cover, by  comparing  the  week's  salary 
with  the  lines  in  the  night's  perform- 
ance, the  exact  value  of  poetical 
passages,  generally  supposed  to  be 
invaluable.  "  Listen,"  said  she :  — 

"  '  Come  !  come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal   thoughts,    unsex    me 
here ! ' 

They  are  just  worth  tenpence  !  " 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


251 


Alexander,  who  had  been  raised  by 
the  poetry,  was*  depressed  greatly  by 
its  arithmetic. 

She  recommenced :  — 

"That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it 
makes, 

Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of 
the  dark, 

To  cry,  Hold  !  hold  !  —  Great  Glamis  !  wor- 
thy Cawdor  !  " 

Making  the  point  on  "  Great  Gla- 
mis," at  Macbeth's  entrance,  not  on 
"  Hold,"  which  is  done  nowadays, 
and  is  too  cruel  silly. 

"  Ah !  you  are  yourself  again," 
cried  the  poet. 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  myself  again  ! "  was 
the  dry  answer :  "  those  bring  me  in 
2s.  8d.  every  time." 

And  this  was  the  being  he  had 
adored!  He  had  invested  this  creature 
with  his  own  prismatic  hues,  and 
taken  her  for  a  rainbow. 

Mrs.  Oldfield  told  afterwards  that 
she  felt  herself  cutting  his  heart  away 
from  her  at  every  sentence.  "  But  it 
was  to  be  done,  she  continued.  "  So 
now  you  know  my  trade,  tell  me 
what  is  yours  ?  " 

"  One  I  used  to  despise,  —  an  advo- 
cate." 

"  Ah  !  a  little  long  robe ;  they  sire 
actors,  too,  only  bad  ones ;  .but  tell 
me,"  said  she,  with  a  silly  coquettish 
manner,  borrowed  from  the  comedy 
of  the  day,  "  what  do  you  want  of 
me  ?  You  have  not  followed  me  so 
perseveringly  for  nothing  !  Speak, 
what  have  you  to  tell  me  1 " 

Alexander  blushed  ;  he  had  no 
longer  the  stimulus  to  tell  her  all  he 
had  felt  and  hoped  ;  he  hesitated  and 
stammered ;  at  last  he  bethought  him 
of  his  tragedy ;  so  he  said :  "  I  sent 
you  a  tragedy,  madam ! " 

"  What,  do  they  do  that  in  War- 
wickshire ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam  !  I  composed  it  by 
stealth  in  my  father's  office." 

Oldfield  smiled. 

Alexander  continued  :  "If  is 
called,  from  the  heroine  of  the  play, 
Bereuice ! " 


"  Berenice  !  "  cried  the  actress,  with 
a  start. 

Now  this  tragedy  had  pleased  Mrs. 
Oldfield  more  than  any  manuscript 
she  had  seen  these  three  years ;  but, 
above  all,  the  part  of  "  Berenice  "  had 
charmed  her  ;  it  fitted  her  like  a  glove, 
as  she  poetically  expressed  herself;  it 
was  written  in  Alexander's  copper- 
plate hand,  so  she  had  not  identified 
it  with  the  author  of  her  diurnal 
verses. 

"  Berenice  !  is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  A  queen,  madam,  who,  captured 
by  the  Romans  —  " 

"  What,  sir !  you  the  author  of 
that  work  ?  "  said  she,  With  sudden 
respect. 

"  Favor  me  with  your  opinion," 
said  the  sanguine  poet. 

Tremble,  Nathan,  you  had  only 
her  womanly  weakness  to  dread  hith- 
erto ;  but  now  the  jade's  interest  is 
against  you.  Strange  to  say,  her 
promise  carried  the  day  ;  she  was  true 
as  steel  to  Nathan,  and  remorseless 
as  steel  to  Alexander.  She  saw  at 
once  that  no  middle  course  was  now 
tenable ;  so  she  turned  on  the  poor 
poet,  not  without  secret  regret,  and, 
with  a  voice  of  ice,  she  said  :  "  The 
town  is  tired  of  Romans,  my  good 
sir,  you  had  better  go  into  Tartary ; 
besides,"  added  she,  jumping  at  the 
commonplaces  of  dramatic  censure, 
"your  fable  does  not  march,  your 
language  wants  fire ;  let  me  give  you 
a  word  of  advice,  or  rather  a  line  of 
advice,  'Plead,  Alexander,  plead,  and 
rhyme  no  more ! ' "  She  then  added 
hastily,  in  a  very  different  tone  and 
manner,  "  Forgive  me,  my  poor  child, 
you  will  make  more  money,  and  be 
more  respected." 

The  reason  of  this  rapid  change  of 
manner  was  this  :  when  we  have 
given  dreadful  pain,  more  pain  than 
we  calculated  on,  and  see  it,  we  are 
apt  to  try  and  qualify  it  with  a  little 
weak,  empty  good-nature.  Now  at 
her  verdict,  and  her  witty  line,  Alex- 
ander had  turned  literally  as  pale  as 
ashes  !  The  drop  of  oil  she  poured 
on  the  deadly  wounds  she  had  given 


252 


ART  :    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


was  no  comfort  to  him  ;  he  rose,  he 
tried  to  speak  to  her,  but  his  lip 
trembled  so  violently  he  could  not 
articulate ;  at  last  he.  gasped  out  : 
"  Thank  you  for  undeceiving  me  ; 
you  have  taught  me  your  own  v — 
value ;  and  m — mine,  forgive  me,  the 
time  I  have  made  you  waste  upon  a 
d — dunce."  And  then,  in  spite  of  all 
he  could  do,  the  tears  forced  them- 
selves throujjh  the  poor  boy's  eyes, 
and,  casting  one  look  of  shame  and 
half-reproach  upon  her,  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  brow,  and  went  discon- 
solately from  the  room,  and  out  of 
the  house. 

Poor  fellow  !  she  had  made  him 
ten  years  older  than  when,  ten  min- 
utes before,  he  entered  that  room,  all 
faith,  and  poetry,  and  hope,  and  love. 

Slowly  and  disconsolately,  he 
dragged  his  heavy  steps  and  heavy 
heart  home.  His  father  followed, 
and  entered  his  small  apartment  with- 
out ceremony.  Nathan  found  his 
son  sitting  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground ;  in  a  few  abrupt  words  he 
told  him  he  knew  all  about  his  amor- 
ous folly,  and  had  come  up  to  cure 
it. 

.  "  It  is  cured,"  said  Alexander ; 
"she  has  cured  me  herself." 

"  Then  she  is  an  honest  woman," 
cried  Nathan.  "  So  now,  since  that 
nonsense  is  over,  take  my  arm  and  we 
will  go  down  to  Westminster." 

"  Yes,  father." 

They  went  to  "Westminster ;  they 
entered  a  court  of  law,  and  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  hear  an  interesting 
trial.  Counsel  for  the  plaintiff  was 
just  opening  a  crim.  con.  case. 

The  advocate  dwelt  upon  the  sa- 
cred feelings  outraged  by  the  seducer, 
on  the  irremediable  gap  that  had  been 
made  in  a  house  and  in  a  human 
heart;  the  pitiable  doubt  that  had 
been  cast  over  those  sacred  parental 
affections,  which  were  all  that  now 
remained  to  the  bereaved  husband. 
He  painted  the  empty  chamber,  the 
vacant  place  by  the  hearth,  and  the 
father  dagger-struck  by  little  voices 
lisping,  "  Papa,  where  is  mamma 


gone  ? "  and  all  that  sort  of  tiling. 
His  speech  was  rich'  in  topic  and 
point,  and  as  for  emphasis,  it  was  all 
emphasis.  He  concluded  in  this 
wise :  "  Such  injuries  as  these  can 
never  be  compensated  by  money;  it 
is  ridiculous  to  talk  of  money  where  a 
man  has  been  laid  desolate,  and  there- 
fore I  hope,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you 
will  give  my  unfortunate  client  three 
thousand  pounds  damages  at  the  very 
least." 

At  each  point  the  orator  made,  Na- 
than nudged  Alexander,  as  if  to  say, 
"  That  is  how  you  must  do  it  some 
day." 

As  they  returned  homewards,  At- 
torney asked  Poet  how  he  had  been 
charmed  by  Mr.  Eitherside's  elo- 
quence. 

"Eloquence,"  said  Alexander,  wak- 
ing from  his  revery.  "  I  heard  no  el- 
oquence:" 

"  No  eloquence !  why,  he  worked 
the  defendant  like  a  man  beating  a 
carpet." 

Nathan  recapitulated  Mr.  Either- 
side's points. 

"  Well,  father,"  was  the  languid 
reply,  "  this  shows  me  that  people 
who  would  speak  about  the  heart 
should  speak  from  the  heart.  I  heard 
something  like  a  terrier  dog  barking, 
that  is  all  I  remember." 

"  A  terrier  dog !  one  of  the  first 
counsel  in  the  land  !  But  there,  you 
come  to  your  dinner.  I  won't  be  in 
a  passion  with  you,  if  I  can  help,  be- 
cause —  you  '11  be  better  after  din- 
ner." 

Nathan's  satisfaction  at  his  son's 
sudden  cure  was  soon  damped.  Al- 
exander was  not  better  after  dinner: 
to  be  sure  this  might  have  been  ow- 
ing to  his  having  eaten  none ;  he 
could  not  eat,  and  never  volunteered 
a  word,  only,  when  spoken  to  three 
times,  he  shook  himself  and  answered 
with  a  visible  effort,  and  then  nestled 
into  silence  again.  The  next  ami 
following  days  matters  were  worse. 
Spite  of  all  Nathan  could  do  to  move 
him,  he  sank  into  a  cold,  listless 
melancholy.  About  five  o'clock 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


253 


(play-time)  he  used  to  be  very  rest- 
less and  nervous  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  relapse  into  stone.  And 
now  Nathan  began  to  ask  himself 
what  the  actress  had  done  to  his  son 
during  that  short  interview  between 
them.  He  began  greatly  to  doubt 
the  wonderful  cure,  or  rather  to  fear 
that  the  first  poison  had  been  at- 
tacked by  a  stronger,  in  the  way  of 
antidote,  which  had  left  his  son  in 
worse  case  than  before. 

Hitherto  he  had  thought  it  wisest 
to  avoid  the  subject,  and  silently  ex- 
pel the  boy's  folly  by  taking  him  and 
shaking  him,  and  keeping  him  from 
thinking  of  it.  But  now  one  even- 
ing, as  he  looked  at  Alexander's  pal- 
lid, listless  countenance,  his  anxiety 
got  the  better  of  his  plan,  and  he 
could  not  help  facing  the  obnoxious 
topic. 

After  a  vain  attempt  or  two  to  in- 
terest the  poet  in  other  matters,  he 
suddenly  burst  out :  "  What  is  the 
matter,  Alexander?  What  has  she 
done  to  you  now  1 " 

Alexander  winced. 

"  Tell  me,  my  boy,"  said  Nathan, 
more  gently. 

Alexander  gclata. 

"  She  has  deceived  me.  She  has 
robbed  my  heart  of  all  its  wealth. 
O,  I  would  rather  have  gone  on  be- 
lieving her  all  that  is  great  and  good, 
though  inaccessible  to  me  !  But  to 
hnd  my  divinity  a  mean,  heartless 
slattern.  To  find  that  I  have  poured 
all  my  treasures  away  forever  upon 
an  unworthy  object.  0  father  !  I  do 
not  grieve  so  much  that  she  is  worth- 
less, but  that  I  thought  her  worthy. 
To  me  she  was  the  jewel  of  the  earth. 
I  know  her  now  for  a  vile  counterfeit, 
and  I  have  wasted  my  affections  on 
this  creature,  and  now  I  have  none 
left  for  any  worthy  object ;  scarcely 
for  my  father.  See  my  conduct  to 
you  all  this  week.  Heaven  forgive 
me,  —  and  you  forgive  me,  sir.  I 
feel  I  am  no  son  to  you.  I  am  lost ! 
I  am  lost !  " 

"  Alexander,  don't  be  a  fool," 
roared  Nathan ;  "  get  up  off  your 


knees,  or  I  '11  kec — kee — kick  yon  into 
the  fi — fire !  "  gulped  he  ;  "  that  is 
right, —  that 's  a  dear  boy  :  now  tell 
me  what  has  the  poor  lady  done  1  I 
can't  think  she  is  such  a  very  bad 
one." 

"  She  has  robbed  herself  and  me 
of  the  tints  with  which  I  had  invest- 
ed her,  and  shown  herself  to  me  in 
her  true  colors." 

"  Why,  yon  must  n't  tell  me  she 
paints  her  face  without 't  is  with  cold 
water." 

"  O  no !  not  that,  but  off  the  stage 
she  is  a  mean,  vulgar,  bad  woman." 

"  I  can't  think  that  of  her,  Alexan- 
der." 

"  Father,  I  have  no  words  to  tell 
you  her  vulgarity,  her  avarice,  her 
stupidity,  —  as  for  her  beauty,  it  is 
all  paint  and  artifice,  father.  I  saw 
her  this  day  se'night  in  her  own 
house ;  she  is  vulgar,  and  dirty,  and 
almost  ugly." 

"  0  you  deceitful  young  rascal, 
you  know  she  is  beautiful  as  an  an- 
gel !  " 

"  Is  n't  she,  sir  !  —  ah  !  you  have 
only  seen  her  on  the  stage  —  " 

"  I  see  her  on  the  stage !  What, 
do  you  tell  me  I  go  to  the  playhouse  ! 
I  never  was  in  a  playhouse  in  my 
life." 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  she  is 
beautiful  ?  Where  have  you  seen 
her,  if  not  on  the  stage  ?  " 

Mr.  Oldworthy  senior  hesitated. 
He  did  not  choose  his  son  to  know 
he  had  visited  the  play-actressy  and 
enlisted  her  in  his  cause. 

Alexander  saw  his  hesitation,  and 
misinterpreted  it  ludicrously. 

"  Ah,  father,"  cried  he,  "  do  not  be 
ashamed  of  it." 

"  I  am  not,  —  ashamed  of  what '  " 

"  Wonld  I  were  worthy  of  all  this 
affection  !  " 

"  What  affection  ?  " 

"  That  you  have  for  the  unfortu- 
nate." 

"  I  have  no  affection  for  the  un- 
fortunate ;  it  's  always  their  own 
fault." 

"  If  you  know  how  I  honor  you  for 


254 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


this,  you  would  not  deny  or  be 
ashamed  of  it." 

"  Of  what  ?  Are  we  talking  rid- 
dles ?  " 

"  Do  not  attempt  to  disguise  what 
gives  you  a  fresh  title  to  my  grat- 
itude, —  it  was  curiosity  to  see  my 
destroyer  drew  you  thither.  Ah,  it 
must  have  been  the  day  before  yester- 
day. I  remember  you  disappeared 
after  dinner.  Well,  fatner,"  contin- 
ued Alexander,  with  a  sad,  sweet, 
melancholy  accent,  "you  saw  her 
play  '  Monimia '  that  night,  and  hav- 
irfg  seen  her  you  can  forgive  my  in- 
fatuation." 

-  "  No !  1  can't  forgive  your  infatua- 
tion, obstinate  toad !  that  will  tell  me 
I  have  been  to  the  playhouse,  —  to 
the  Devil's  own  shop  parlor,  that  is." 

"  You  have  seen  her,  —  you  call 
her  beautiful,  therefore  it  is  clear  you 
have  seen  her  at  the  theatre,  for  at 
home  she  is  anything  but  beautiful  or 
an  angel." 

"  Alexander,  you  will  put  me  in  a 
passion ;  but  I  won't  be  put  in  a 
passion."  So  saying,  the  old  gentle- 
man, who  was  in  a  passion,  marched 
slap  out  of  the  house  into  the  moon- 
light and  cooled  himself  therein. 

On  his  return  he  found  his  son  sit- 
ting in  a  sort  of  collapse  by  the  fire, 
and  all  his  endeavors  to  draw  him 
from  brooding  over  his  own  misery 
proved  unavailing.  The  next  day  he 
was  worse,  if  possible ;  and  when 
play-time  had  come  and  gone,  and 
Nathan  was  in  the  middle  of  a  long 
law-case  fhat  he  was  relating  for  his 
son's  amusement,  Alexander,  who 
had  not  spoken  for  hours,  quietly 
asked  Nathan  what  he  thought  about 
suicide,  and  whether  it  was  really  a 
crime  to  die  when  hope  was  dead, 
and  life  withered  forever.  Nathan 
gave  a  short,  severe  answer  to  this 
query  ;  but  it  troubled  him. 

He  began  to  be  frightened :  he  con- 
sulted Bateman.  Bateman  was  equal- 
ly puzzled  ;  but  at  last  the  latter  hit 
upon  an  idea.  "  Go  to  the  actress 
again,"  said  he;  "it  seems  she  can 
do  anything  with  him.  She  made 


him  love  her,  —  she  made  him  hate 
her ;  ask  her  to  make  him  to  do 
something  between  the  two." 

"  Why,  you  old  fool !  "  was  the 
civil  retort,  "  you  are  an  mad  as  he  is. 
No  !  she  almost  bewitched  me,  for  as 
old  as  I  am ;  and  I  won't  go  near  her 
again." 

But  Alexander  got  worse  and 
worse.  He  drooped  like  a  tender 
flower.  He  had  lost  appetite  and 
sleep ;  and  without  them  the  body 
soon  gives  way. 

His  grief  was  of  the  imagination. 
But  the  distinction  muddleheads  draw 
between  real  and  imaginary  griefs  is 
imaginary.  Whatever  robs  a  human 
unit  of  rest,  nourishment,  and  life,  is 
as  real  to  him  as  anything  but  eter- 
nity itself  is  real. 

The  old  men  saw  a  subtle  disorder 
creeping  over  the  young  man.  It 
was  incomprehensible  to  them  ;  and 
after  ridiculing  it  awhile,  they  began 
to  be  more  frightened  at  it  than  if 
they  had  comprehended  it 

At  last,  one  fine  morning,  a  new 
phase  presented  itself.  A  great  desire 
for  solitude  consumed  our  poor  poet. 
All  human  beings  were  distasteful  to 
him,  and,  his  mind  being  in  a  diseased 
state,  Nathan  and  Timothy  bored  him 
like  red-hot  gimlets,  —  the  truth  must 
be  told.  Well,  this  particular  morn- 
ing they  would  not  let  him  alone,  — 
and  so  he  wanted  just  to  be  left  in 
peace,  —  and  partly  from  nervousness, 
partly  from  irritation,  partly  from 
misery,  the  poet  lost  all  self-command, 
and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  cursed  and 
swore,  and  vowed  he  would  kill  him- 
self, and  called  his  friends  his  tor- 
mentors, and  wept  and  raved  and 
cursed  the  hour  he  was  born.  And 
at  the  end  of  this  most  unbecoming 
tirade  he  was  for  dashing  out  of  the 
house  ;  but  his  father  caught  him  by 
the  collar,  and  whirled  him  back  into 
his  room,  and  locked  him  into  it. 
Alexander  fell  into  a  chair,  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands ;  presently  he 
heard  something  that  made  him  feel 
how  selfish  his  grief  had  been.  He 
heard  a  deep  sigh  just  outside  the 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


255 


door,  and  then  a  heavy  step  went 
down  the  stair. 

"  Father  ! "  cried  he,  "  forgive  me ! 
0,  forgive  me  ! " 

It  was  too  late.  All  who  give  a 
parent  pain  repent ;  but  how  often  it 
is  too  late ! 

The  poor  old  man  was  gone,  as  un- 
happy as  his  son,  and  with  more  solid 
reason.  He  went  into  the  street, 
without  knowing  what  he  should  do 
or  where  he  should  go. 

It  happened  at  this  moment  that 
Bateman's  advice  came  into  his  head. 
He  was  less  disposed  to  scout  it  now. 

"  It  can  do  no  harm,"  thought  he, 
"  and  I  am  quite  at  a  loss.  She  has 
a  good  heart,  I  think,  and  at  all  events 
she  seems  to  know  how  to  work  on 
him,  and  I  don't.  I  '11  risk  it." 

So,  hanging  his  head,  with  no  very 
good  will,  he  slowly  wended  his  way 
towards  Mrs.  Oldfield's  house. 

When  Alexander  left  Mrs.  Oldfield, 
that  lady  took  off  her  vulgar  cap  and 
the  old  wig  with  which  she  had  dis- 
guised her  lovely  head,  and,  throwing 
herself  into  a  chair,  laughed  at  the 
piece  of  comedy  she  had  played  off  on 
our  poor  poet. 

Her  laugh,  however,  was  not  sin- 
cere ;  it  soon  died  away  into  some- 
thing more  like  a  sigh. 

The  next  morning  there  was  no 
letter  in -verse,  and  she  missed  it.  She 
had  become  used  to  them,  and  was 
vexed  to  think  she  had  put  an  end  to 
them.  On  returning  from  the  theatre 
she  looked  from  her  carriage  to  see  if 
he  was  standing  as  usual  by  the  stage 
door.  No,  he  was  not  there;  no 
more  letters,  —  no  more  Alexander. 
She  felt  sorry  she  had  lost  so  genuine 
an  admirer;  and  the  moment  the 
sense  of  his  loss  touched  herself,  she 
began  to  pity  him,  and  think  what  a 
shame  it  was  to  deceive  him  so. 

"  I  could  have  liked  him  better 
than  all  the  rest,"  said  she. 

But  this  lady's  profession  is  one  un- 
favorable to  the  growth  of  regrets,  or 
of  affection  for  any  object  not  in  sight. 
She  had  to  rehearse  from  ten  till  one, 
then  to  come  home,  then  to  lay  out 


her  clothes  for  the  theatre,  then  to 
dine,  then  to  study,  then  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  then  to  dress,  then  to  act  with 
all  the  intoxications  of  genius,  light, 
multitude,  and  applause,  then  to  un- 
dress, sup,  etc. ;  and  all  this  time  she 
was  constantly  flattered  and  courted 
by  dozens  of  beaux  and  wits.  Had 
she  been  capable  of  a  deep  attach- 
ment, it  could  not  have  monopolized 
her  as  Alexander's  did  his.  However, 
she  did  thus  much  for  our  poor  poet ; 
when  she  found  she  had  succeeded  in 
banishing  him,  she  went  into  her  tan- 
trums, and  snapped  at  and  scratched 
everybody  else  that  was  kind  to  her. 
She  also  often  invited  Susan  to  speak 
of  him,  and  after  a  while  snubbed  her 
and  forbade  the  topic. 

To-day,  then,  as  Mrs.  Oldfield  sat 
studying  "  The  Rival  Queens,"  sud- 
denly she  heard  a  sob,  and  there  was 
Susan,  with  the  tears  quietly  and 
without  effort  streaming  from  her 
eyes,  like  the  water  running  through 
a  lockgate.  Susan  had  just  returned 
from  a  walk. 

"  What  have  you  done  ?  "  whined 
Susan.  "  I  have  just  met  him,  and 
he  said  to  me,  '  Ah,  madam ! '  he 
'always  calls  me  madam,  and  he  has 
lost  his  beautiful  color,  —  he  is  mis- 
erable, —  and  I  am  miserable." 

"  Well ! "  snapped  Anne,  "  and  am 
I  not  miserable  too !  Why,  Susan," 
cried  she,  for  a  glimmering  of  light 
burst  on  her,  "  surely  you  are  not 
such  a  goose  as  to  fancy  yourself  in 
love  with  my  Alexander." 

My  Alexander,  —  good !  She  has 
declined  him  for  herself,  but  she  will 
not  let  you  have  him  any  the  more 
for  that,  —  other  women  ! 

"  Your  Alexander  !  No  !  I  am  too 
fond  of  my  own !  Here 's  your  one's 
book  " ;  and  Susan  thrust  a  duodecimo 
towards  her  cousin. 

"My  one's  book,"  said  Mrs.  Old- 
field,  with  a  mystified  air. 

"  Yes !  Robert  says  it  belongs  to 
the  young  gentleman  who  saved  you 
from  the  Duchess's  carriage ;  he 
picked  it  up  after  the  battle." 

Mrs.  Oldfield  opened  the  book  with 


250 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


interest ;  judge  her  surprise  when  the 
first  page  discovered  verses  in  Alex- 
ander's well-known  hand :  in  the  next 
page  was  a  spirited  drawing  of  Mrs. 
Oldfield  as  "  Sophonisba  "  ;'  under 
it  was  written,  in  gold  letters,  "  Not 
one  base  word  of  Carthage  on  thy 
soul," — a  line  the  actress  used  to 
speak  with  such  majesty  and  fire  that 
the  audience  always  burst  into  a  round 
of  applause.  And  so  on,  upon  every 
page,  poetry  or  picture.  The  verses 
were  more  tender  than  those  he  had 
sent  her  by  letter.  The  book  was  his 
secret  heart ! 

It  was  Alexander,  then,  who  had 
saved  her,  —  his  love  surrounded,  her. 
And  how  had  all  his  devotion  been 
repaid  ?  She  became  restless,  —  bit 
her  lips ;  the  book  she  held  became  a 
book  of  mist,  and  she  said  to  Susan, 
in  bitter  accents  :  "  They  had  better 
not  let  the  poor  boy  come  near  me 
again,  or  they  will  find  I  am  a  woman, 
in  spite  of  my  nasty  blank  verse  and 
bombast  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! "  and  the 
tragedian  whimpered  a  little,  much  as 
a  housemaid  whimpers  ;  it  was  not  at 
all  like  the  "  real  tears  "  that  had  so 
affected  Alexander. 

On  the  fly-leaf  of  this  little  book 
was  written :  "  Alexander  Oldwor- 
thy  !  Should  I  die,  —  and  I  think  I 
shall  not  live,  for  my  love  consumes 
me,  —  I. pray  some  good  Christian 
to  take  this  book  to  the  great  Mrs. 
Oldfield ;  it  will  tell  her  what  I  shall 
never  dare  to  tell  her  :  and  if  departed 
spirits  are  permitted  to  watch  those 
they  have  loved,  it  is  for  her  sake  I 
shall  revisit  this  earth;  which,  but  for 
her,  I  should  leave  without  regret." 

"  I  am  a  miserable  woman !  "  cried 
the  dealer  in  fictitious  grief.  "  This 
is  love!  I  never  was  loved  before, 
and  mine  must  be  the  hand. to  stab 
him  ;  they  make  me  turn  his  goddess 
to  a  slut,  —  his  love  to  contempt; 
and  I  do  it,  madwoman  that  I  am  ! 
For  what  ?  to  rob  myself  of  the  solace 
Heaven  had  sent  to  my  vacant  heart, 
—  of  the  only  real  treasure  the  earth 
contains  "  ;  and  she  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion of  tears. 


At  this  Susan's  dried  themselves  ; 
the  grief  of  the  greater  mind  swallowed 
up  her  puny  sorrow,  as  the  river  ab- 
sorbs the  brook  that  joins  it.  Anne 
frightened  her,  and  at  last  she  stole 
from  the  room  in  dismay.  Her  ab- 
sence, however,  was  short;  she  re- 
turned in  about  ten  minutes,  and 
announced  a  visitor. 

"I  will  not  sec  him!"  said  Mr?. 
Oldfield,  almost  fiercely,  looking  off 
the  part  she  had  begun  to  study. 

"  It  is  the  rough  gentleman,"  said 
Susan. 

"  What !  Alexander's  father  1  Ad- 
mit him.  He  is  come  to  thank  me, 
and  well  he  may.  Cruel  wretches 
that  we  both  are !  " 

Nathan  entered,  but  with  a  face  so 
rueful,  that  Mrs.  Oldfield  saw  at  once 
gratitude  had  not  brought  him  there. 

"  What  have  you  done,  madam  1 " 
was  his  first  word. 

"Kept  my  word  to  you,  like  a  fool," 
was  the  answer;  "I  hope  you  are 
come  to  reproach  me,  —  it  would  not 
be  complete  without  that !  "  Anil 
the  Oldfield  shed  a  few  tears,  which 
this  time  were  half  bitter  vexation, 
half  fiction. 

Nathan  had  come  with  that  inten- 
tion, but  he  was  now  terror-struck, 
and  afraid  to  do  anything  of  the  kind. 
He  proceeded,  however,  in  mournful 
tones,  to  tell  her  that  Alexander  had 
fallen  into  a  state  of  despondency  and 
desperation  which  had  made  him  — 
the  father  —  regret  that  more  inno- 
cent madness  he  had  hitherto  been  so 
anxious  to  cure. 

"  He  says  he  will  kill  himself,"  said 
Nathan.."  And  if  he  does  he  will  kill 
me.  Poor  boy  !  all  his  illusions  are 
kicked  head  over  heels ;  so  he  says, 
however." 

"  A  good  job,  too !  "  said  Mrs.  Old- 
field. 

"  How  can  you  say  a  good  job,  when 
it  will  be  a  job  for  Bedlam  ?  " 

"  Bedlam ! " 

"  Yes  ;  he  is  mad  !  " 

"What  makes  you  think  he  is 
mad  1  " 

"  He  says  you  are  not  beautiful ! 


ART :    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


257 


'  She  has  neither  heart,  grace,  nor  wit/ 
says  he :  in  a  word,  he  is  insane. 
I  reasoned  calmly  with  him,"  contin- 
ued the  afflicted  father.  "  I  told  him 
he  was  an  idiot ;  but,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  he'  answered  my  affectionate  re- 
monstrance with  nonsense  and  curses, 
and  a  lot  of  words,  without  head  or 
tail  to  them  :  he  is  mad  !  " 

"  You  cruel  old  man  !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Oldficld  :  "  have  yon  done  nothing  to 
soothe  the  poor  child  1 " 

"  O  yes  ! "  said  the  cruel  old  man, 
resenting  the  doubt  cast  upon  his  ten- 
derness ;  "  I  shoved  him  into  a  room, 
and  double-locked  him  in  :  and  came 
straight  to  you  for  advice  ahout  him, 
you  are  so  clever." 

"  So  it  seems  ! "  said  she  ;  "  I  have 
made  everybody  unhappy,  —  you,  Al- 
exander, and  most  of  all  myself." 
And  tears  began  to  well  out  of  her 
lovely  eyes. 

"  0  dear !  —  O  dear  !  —  O  dear !  — 
don't  you  vex  yourself  so,  my  lamb." 

But  the  lamb,  alias  crocodile,  insist- 
ed upon  putting  her  head  gracefully 
upon  Nathan's  shoulder,  and  crying 
meekly  awhile.  On  this  (a  man's 
heart  being  merely  a  lump  of  sugar 
that  melts  when  woman's  eye  lets 
fall  a  drop  of  warm  water  upon  it) 
Nathan  loved  her :  it*was  intended  he 
s*hould. 

"  I  would  give  my  right  arm  if  you 
would  make  him  love  you  again  ;  at 
all  events  a  little,  —  a  very  little  in- 
deed. Poor  Alexander,  he  is  a  fool, 
a  scatter-brain,  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
a  versifier  :  but  he  is  my  son.  I  have 
but  him.  If  he  goes  mad  or  dies,  his 
father  will  lie  down  and  die  too." 

"  Sir  !  "  said  the  actress,  with  sud- 
den cheerfulness,  and  drying  her  eyes 
with  suspicious  rapidity  :  "  bring  him 
to  me  ;  and  "  (patting  him  slyly  on  the 
arm)  "  you  shall  see  me  make  him 
love  me  more  than  ever,  —  ten  times 
more,  if  you  approve,  dear  sir !  " 

"  Here  !  he  won't  come  ;  he  rails 
at  yon ;  you  are  his  aversion.  O,  he 
is  mad !  my  son  is  deprived  of  rea- 
son: this  comes  of  those  cursed 
rhymes." 


A  pause  ensued  :  Oldfield  broke  it. 
"  I  have  it !  "  cried  she  :  "  he  is  an 
author  :  they  are  all  alike  ! "  ( What 
did  she  mean  by  that  ?)  "  Speak  to 
him  of '  Berenice.' " 

"  Whom  am  I  to  talk  to  him 
about  ?  " 

"  Berenice ! " 

"  What,  is  he  after  another  woman 
now "?  " 

"  No,  — his  tragedy !  " 

"  His  tragedy  ! " 

"  Ah !  I  forgot,"  said  she,  coolly : 
"  you  are  not  in  the  secret ;  he  com- 
posed it  by  stealth  in  your  office." 
She  then  seated  herself  at  aside-table, 
and  wrote  a  note  with  theatrical  ra- 
pidity. 

"  Give  him  this,"  said  she. 

Receiving  no  answer,  she  looked 
up,  a  little  surprised,  and  there  was 
Nathan  apoplectic  with  indignation  ; 
his  two  cheeks,  red  as  beet-root,  were 
puffed  out ;  paternal  tenderness  was 
in  abeyance :  finally  he  exploded  in  : 
"  So,  this  was  how  my  brief-paper 
went !  "  and  marched  off  impetuous- 
ly, throwing  down  a  chair, 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  remon- 
strated his  companion. 

"  He  is  an  author,"  was  the  reply  ; 
"  he  is  no  son  of  mine.  I  '11  unlock 
him  and  kick  him  into  the  wide 
world." 

"  What,  for  consecrating  your  brief- 
paper  to  the  Muse  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  did  you  ever  know  a  de- 
cent, respectable  character  write  po- 
etry ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  No !  that  you  never  did !  Who, 
now  1 " 

"  David !  he  wrote  Hebrew  poetry, 
—  the  Psalms ;  and  very  beautiful 
poetry,  too." 

Poor  Nathan !  he  was  like  a  bull, 
which,  in  the  middle  of  a  gallant 
charge,  receives  a  bullet  in  a  vital 
part,  and  so  pulls  up,  and  looks 
mighty  stupid  for  a  moment  ere  he 
falls. 

But  Nathan  did  not  fall ;  he 
glared  reproach  on  Mrs.  Oldfield  for 
having  said  a  thing,  which,  though  it 


258 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


did  not  exactly  admit  of  immediate 
confutation,  was  absurd  as  well  as  pro- 
fane, thought  he,  and  resolved  to  serve 
Alexander  out  for  it ;  he  told  her  as 
much.  So  then  ensued  a  little  piece 
of  private  theatricals  :  Mrs.  Oldfield, 
clasping  her  hands  together,  began  to 
go,  gracefully,  down  on  her  knees,  an 
inch  at  a  time  (nothing  but  great 
practice  enabled  her  to  do  it),  and  re- 
mind Nathan  that  he  was  a  father, 
—  that  his  son's  life  was  more  pre- 
cious than  anything,- — that  to  be 
angry  with  the  unhappy  was  cruel,  — 
"  Save  him !  save  him  !  " 

Poor  Nathan  took  all  this  stage 
business  for  an  nnpremeditated  ef- 
fusion of  the  heart ;  and,  with  a  tear 
in  his  eye,  raised  the  queen  of  the 
crocodiles,  and  with  a  hideously  ami-  i 
able  grin,  "  I'll  forgive  him!"  said 
he  :  "  to  please  you,  I  'd  forgive  Old 
Nick." 

With  this  virtuous  resolve  and 
equivocal  compliment,  he  vanished 
from  the  presence-chamber,  and  hur- 
ried towards  Alexander's  retreat. 

Oldfield  .retired  hastily  to  her  bed- 
room, and,  having  found  "  Berenice," 
ran  hastily  through  it  once  more,  and 
began  to  study  a  certain  scene  which 
she  thought  could  be  turned  to  her 
purpose.  Having  what  is  called  a 
very  quick  study,  she  was  soon  mis- 
tress of  the  twenty  or  thirty  lines. 
She  then  put  on  a  splendid  dress,  ap- 
propriate (according  to  the  ideas  of 
the  day)  to  an  Eastern  queen.  That 
done,  she  gave  herself  to  Starira,  the 
part  she  was  to  play  upon  this  im- 
portant evening ;  but  Susan  observed 
a  strange  restlessness  and  emotion  in 
her  cousin. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Anne  ?  "  said 
she. 

"  It  is  too  bad  of  these  men,"  was 
the  answer.  "  I  ought  to  be  all 
Statira  to-day;  and,  instead  of  a 
tragedy-queen,  they  make  me  feel  like 
a  human  being!  This  will  not  do: 
I  cannot  have  my  fictitious  feelings, 
in  which  thousands  are  interested,  en- 
dangered for  such  a  trifle  as  my  real 
ones " ;  and,  by  a  stern  effort,  she 


glued  her  eyes  to  her  part,  and  was 
Statira. 

Meanwhile  Nathan  had  returned  to 
Alexander;  and,  giving  him  Mrs. 
Oldfield's  note,  bade  him  instantly 
accompany  him  to  her  house. 

Alexander  had  no  sooner  read  the 
note,  than  the  color  rushed  into  his 
pale  face,  and  his  eye  brightened ; 
but  on  reflection  he  "begged  to  be 
excused  from  going  there.  Bat 
his  father,  who  had  observed  the 
above  symptoms,  which  proved  to 
him  the  power  of  this  benevolent 
enchantress,  would  take  no  denial ; 
so  they  returned  together  to  her 
house.  It  was  all  very  well  the  first 
part  of  the  road ;  but  at  sight  of  the 
house  poor  Alexander  was  seized 
with  a  combination  of  feelings  that 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  pro- 
ceed. 

"  I  feel  faint,  father." 

"  Lean  on  me." 

"  Pray  excuse  me,  —  I  will  go  back 
to  Coventry  with  you, —  to  the  world's 
end,  —  but  don't  take  me  to  that 
house." 

"  Come  along,  ye  soft-hearted  — * 

"Well,  then,  you  must  assist  me, 
for  my  limbs  fail  me  at  the  idea." 

"  Mine  shall  .help  you,"  —  and  he 
put  an  arm  under  his  son's  shoulde^ 
and  hoisted  him  along  in  an  undeni- 
able manner.  And  so,  in  a  few  min- 
utes more,  the  attorney  was  to  be  seen 
half  drawing,  half  dragging  the  poet 
into  the  abode  of  the  Siren,  which  he 
had  first  entered  (breathing  fire  and 
fury  against  play-actors)  to  drag  his 
son  out  of.  It  was,  indeed,  a  curious 
reversal  of  sentiments  in  a  brace  of 
bosoms. 

"  No,  father  !  no  !  "  sighed  Alexan- 
der, as  his  father  pulled  him  into  her 
saloon. 

"  But  I  tell  you  it  is  for  your  trag- 
edy," remonstrated  the  parchment  to 
the  paper  hero.  "  It 's  business," 
said  he,  reproachfully.  "Npw  't  is 
writ,  let  us  sell  it  —  to  greater  fools 
than  ourselves,  —  if  we  can  find 
them." 

The  tone  in  which  he  uttered  the 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


259 


last  sentence  conveyed  no  very  san- 
guine hope,  on  his  part,  of  a  pur- 
chaser. 

"  Why  did  you  bring  me  here,  dear 
father  ?  sighed  the  disillusion^.  "  It 
was  here  my  idol  descended  from  her 
pedestal.  O  reality !  you  are  not 
worth  the  pain  of  living,  —  the  toil 
of  breathing." 

"  Poor  boy  ! "  thought  Nathan  ; 
"  he  is  in  a  bad  way,  —  the  toil  of 
breathing !  —  well,  I  never  !  —  Your 
tragedy,  lad,  your  tragedy,"  insinuat- 
ed he,  biting  his  lips  not  to  be  in  a 
rage. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Alexander,  perking 
up,  "  it  is  the  last  tie  that  holds  me  to 
life.  She  says  in  this  note  that  she 
took  it  for  another,  and  that  mine  has 
merit." 

"  No  doubt !  no  doubt !  "  said  the 
other,  humoring  the  absurdity. 
"How  came  the  Muse  (that  is  the 
wench's  name,  I  believe)  into  my  of- 
fice 1  " 

"  She  used  ever  to  come  in,"  began 
he,  in  rapt  tones,  "  when  you  went 
out,"  he  added,  mighty  dryly. 

Alexander's  next  casual  observa- 
tion was  to  this  effect,  —  that  once  he 
had  a  soul,  but  that  now  his  lyre  was 
broken. 

"  That  "s  soon  mended,"  said  his 
rough  comforter ;  "  well,  since  your 
liar  is  cracked  —  " 

"  I  said  broken,  father,  —  and  forme 
the  business  of  life  is  ended." 

"  Well,"  said  the  parent,  whose 
good-humor  at  this  crisis  appears  to 
have  been  inexhaustible,  "  sint'e  your 
liar  is  broken,  —  smashed,  I  hope,  — 
and  your  business  done,  or  near  it, 
turn  to  amusement  a  bit,  my  poor 
lad." 

Alexander  looked  at  him,  surveyed 
him  from -top  to  toe. 

"  Amusement ! "  winnicd  the  incon- 
solable one,  with  a  ghastly  chuckle, 
—  "  amusement !  Where  can  broken 
hearts  find  amusement  ?  " 

"  IN  THE  LAW  ! "  roared  Nathan, 
with  cheerful,  hopeful,  healthy  tone 
and  look.  "  I  do,"  added  he  ;  then, 
seeing  bitter  incredulity  on  the  poet, 


he  explained,  sotto  voce,  "'T  is  n't  as 
if  we  were  clients,  ye  fool." 

"  Never  ! "  shrieked  Alexander. 

Poor  Nathan  had  commanded  his 
wrath  till  now,  but  this  energetic 
"  Never  ! "  set  him  in  a  blaze. 

"  Never  !  you  young  scamp,"  shout- 
ed he ;  "  but  —  but  —  don't  put  me 
in  a  passion,  —  when  I  tell  ye  the  ex- 
ciseman's daughter  won't  have  you 
on  any  other  terms." 

"  And  I  won't  have  her  on  any 
terms,  —  she  is  a  woman." 

"  Well,  she  is  on  the  road  to-it,  — 
she  is  a  girl,  and  a  very  fine  one, 
and  you  are  to  make  her  a  woman, 
—  and  she  will  make  a  man  of  you, 
I  hope." 

"  No  more  women  for  me,"  object- 
ed the  poet.  He  then  confided  to  an 
impatient  parent  his  future  plan  of  ex- 
istence. It  was  simple,  very  simple  ; 
he  purposed  to  live  in  a  garret  in 
London,  hating  and  hated;  so  this 
brought  matters  to  a  head. 

"  I  have  been  too  good  to  you  !  you 
are  ntad !  and,  by  virtue  of  parental 
authority,  I  seize  your  body,  young 
man." 

But  the  body  had  legs,  and,  for 
once,  an  attorney  failed  to  effect  a 
seizure. 

He  slipped  under  his  father's  arm, 
and,  getting  a  table  between  them, 
gave  vent  to  his  despair. 

"  Since  you  are  without  pity," 
cried  he,  "  I  am  lost.  Farewell  for- 
ever ! "  and  he  rushed  to  the  door, 
which  opened  at  that  instant. 

The  father  uttered  a  deprecatory 
cry,  which  died  off  into  a  semiquaver 
of  admiration,  —  for,  at  this  moment, 
a  lady  of  dazzling  beauty,  arrayed  in 
a  glorious  robe  that  swept  the  ground, 
crossed  the  poet's  path,  before  he 
could  reach  the  door,  and,  with  a 
calm,  but  queen-like  gesture,  rooted 
him  to  the  spot. 

She  uttered  but  one  word,  but  that 
word,  as  she  spoke  it,  seemed  capable 
of  stilling  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

"  Hold ! " 

No  louder  than  you  and  I  speak, 
reader,  but  irresistibly.  Such  majesty 


2GO 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


and  composure  came  from  her,  upon 
them,  with  this  simple  monosyllable. 
They  stood  spellbound.  Alexander 
thought  no  more  of  flight ;  nor  Nathan 
of  pursuit. 

At  last,  by  one  of  those  inspirations 
that  convey  truth  more  surely  than 
human  calculation  is  apt  to,  the  poet 
cried  out :  "  This  is  herself,  the  other 
was  a  personation !  " 

"  Berenice  "  took  no  notice  of  this 
exclamation.  She  continued,  with 
calm  majesty :  — 

"  Listen  to  a  queen,  whose  steadfast  will 
In  chains  is  royal,  in  Rome  unconquered 

still  ; 
O'er  my  bowed  head  though  waves  of  sorrow 

roll, 
I  still  retain  the  empire  of  my  soul." 

Her  two  hearers  stood  spellbound. 
And  then  did  Alexander  taste  the 
greatest  pleasure  earth  affords,  —  to 
be  a  poet,  and  to  lore  a  great  actress, 
and  to  hear  the  magic  lips  he  loved 
speak  his  own  verse.  Love,  taste, 
and  vanity  were  all  gratified  at  once. 
With  what  rich  flesh  and  blood  she 
clothed  his  shadowy  creation  ;  the 
darling  of  his  brain  was  little  more 
than  a  skeleton.  It  was  reserved  for 
the  darling  of  his  heart  to  complete 
the  creation.  And  then  his  words,  0 
what  a  majesty  and  glory  they  took 
from  her  heavenly  tongue  !  They 
were  words  no  more,  —  they  were 
thunderl)olts  of  speech,  and  sparks  of 
audible  soul.  He  wondered  at  him- 
self and  them. 

Oldfield  spoke  this  line, 

"  O'er  my  bowed  head  though  waves  of  sor- 
row roll," 

with  a  grand,  though  plaintive  swell, 
like  the  sea  itself :  it  was  really  won- 
derful. 

Alexander  had  no  conception  he  or 
any  man  had  ever  written  so  grand  a 
line  as  "  O'er  my  bowed  head  though 
waves  of  sorrow  roll."  He  was  in 
heaven.  A  moment  like  this  is  be- 
yond the  lot  of  earth,  and  compen- 
sates the  smart  that  is  apt  to  be  in 
store,  all  in  good  time,  for  the  poet 
that  loves  a  great  actress,  that  is  to 


say,  a  creature  with  the  tongue  of  an 
angel,  the  principles  of  a  weasel,  and 
the  passions  of  a  fish  ! 

"  And  have  those  lips  graced  words 
of  mine  ?  "  gasped  Alexander.  "  My 
verses,  father ! 

"  His  verses  !  no  !  "  said  Nathan, 
addressing  the  actress  ;  "  can  he  write 
like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet  ?  " 

"  Yes !  Alexander,  I  like  your  play, 
particularly  a  scene  where  this  poor 
queen  sacrifices  her  love  to  the  bar- 
barous prejudices  of  her  captors." 

"  My  favorite  scene  !  my  favorite 
scene  !  Father,  she  likes  my  favorite 
scene ! " 

"  Gentlemen,  be  so  good  as  to  lend 
yourselves  to  the  situation  a  moment. 
Here,  Susan  !  "  In  came  Susan,  her 
eyes  very  red  ;  she  had  been  employed 
realizing  that  Alexander  was  not  to 
be  hers. 

"  You,  sir  !  "  continued  Mrs.  Old- 
field,  addressing  Nathan,  "  are  the 
Consul,  —  the  inexorable  father." 

"  O,  am  I  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  you  must  stand  there,  —  on 
that  flower,  —  like  a  marble  pillar,  — 
deaf  to  all  my  entreaties.  You  are 
about  to  curse  your  son." 

"  I  curse  my  boy  1    Never !  " 

"  Father,  for  Heaven's  sake,  do 
what  she  bids  you." 

"  Dress  the  scene,"  continued  she, 
—  "  farther  off,  Susan,  —  this  is  trag- 
edy, don't  huddle  together  as  they  do 
in  farce." 

"  But  I  am  in  such  trouble,  Anne." 

"  Of  course  you  are,  —  you  are 
Tibtilla,  —  vou  are  jealous.  You  spy 
all  our  looks,  catch  all  our  words. 
Now,  mind  your  business.  The  stage 
is  mine.  I  speak  to  my  Tiberius." 
She  kicked  her  train  adroitly  out  of 
the  way,  and  flowed  like  a  wave  on  a 
calm  day  towards  Tiberius,  who  stood 
entranced,  almost  staggering  under 
the  weight  of  his  own  words,  as  they 
rolled  over  him :  — 

"  Obey  the  mandate  of  unfeeling  Rome  ; 
Make  camps  your  hearth,  the  battle-field 

your  home  ; 

Fly  vain  delights,  fight  for  a  glorious  name, 
Forget  that  e'er  we  met,  and  live  for  Fame/1 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


261 


(In  this  last  line  she  began  to  falter 
a  little.) 

"  Alas  !  I,  whom  lost  kingdoms  could  not 
move, 

Am  mistress  of  myself  no  more.     I  love  ! 

I  love  you,  yet  we  part  ;  —  my  race  pro- 
scribe. 

My  royal  hand  disdain  this  barbarous  tribe. 

This  diadem,  that  all  the  nations  prize, 

Is  an  unholy  thing  in  Roman  eyes." 

She  did  not  merely  speak,  she 
acted  these  lines.  With  what  a  world 
of  dignity  and  pathos  she  said,  "  My 
royal  hand  disdain ! "  and  in  speak- 
ing of  the  "  diadem "  she  slowly 
raised  both  hands,  one  somewhat  high- 
er than  the  other,  and  pointed  to  her 
coronet,  for  one  instant.  The  pose 
would  have  been  invaluable  to  Sculp- 
tor or  Painter. 

"  We  are  in  the  wrong,"  began 
Nathan,  soothingly,  for  the  Queen 
had  slightly  indicated  him  as  one  of 
"the  barbarous  tribe."  "A  lady 
like  you.  —  The  Romans  are  fools- 
asses-dolts-and-beasts,"  cried  Nathan, 
running  the  four  substantives  into 
one. 

"  Hush  !  father ! "  cried  the  author, 
reproachfully. 

"  And  you,  young  maid,  kill  not  my  wounded 

heart ; 
Ah  !  bid  me  not  from  my  Tiberius  part." 

(Tears  seemed  to  choke  her  utter- 
ance. ) 

"  O  no !  cousin,"  drawled  out  Su- 
san, "  sooner  than  you  should  die  of 
grief —  it  is  a  blow,  but  I  give  him 
up  —  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Susan !  you 
put  me  out." 

"  Now  it  is  too  melting,"  whined 
Nathan  ;  "  leave  off,  —  there,  do  ye 
leave  off,  —  it  is  too  melting." 

"  Is  n't  it  ? "  said  Alexander,  rayon- 
nant.  "  Go  on !  go  on  !  You  whose 
dry  eye,  —  you  whose  dry  eye.  Mrs. 
Ohlfield." 

Mrs.  Oldfield  turned  full  on  Nathan, 
and,  sinking  her  voice  into  a  deeper  key, 
she  drove  the  following  lines,  slowly 
and  surely,  through  and  through  his 
poor,  unresisting,  buttery  heart :  — 


"  You  whose  dry  eye  looks  down  on  all  our 

tears, 
Pity    yourself,  —  ah  !     for    yourself  have 

fears. 

Alone  upon  the  earth,  some  bitter  day, 
You  '11  call  your  son  your  trembling  steps  to 

stay. 
Old  man !  regret,  remorse,  will  come  too 

late  ; 
In  vain  you  'II  pity  then  our  sad,  sad  fate." 

"  But,  my  good  sir,  you  don't  bear 
me  out  by  your  dumb  play,  —  you  are 
to  be  the  unrelenting  sire —  "  ' 

"Now,  how  ca-ca-ca-can  I,  when 
you  make  me  blubber  ?  "  gulped  out 
he  "  whose  dry  eyes,"  etc. 

"  And  me !  "  whined  Susan. 

"  Aha  ! "  cried  Alexander,  with  a 
hilarious  shout,  "  I  'vemade  them  cry 
with  my  verses  ! " 

A  smile,  an  arch  smile,  wreathed 
the  Tragic  Queen's  countenance. 

Alexander  caught  it,  and,  not  be- 
ing yet  come  to  his  full  conceit, 
pulled  himself  up  short.  "  No,"  cried 
he,  "  no !  it  was  you  who  conquered 
them  with  my  weak  weapon ;  you 
whose  face  is  spirit,  and  whose  voice  is 
music.  Enchantress  —  " 

Now  Alexander,  who  was  grace- 
fully inclining  towards  the  charmer, 
received  a  sudden  push  from  the  excit- 
ed Nathan,  and  fell  plump  on  his 
knees. 

"  Speak  again,"  cried  he,  "  for  you 
are  my  queen.  I  love  you.  What  is 
to  be  my  fate  ?  " 

"  Alexander,"  said  Anne,  fluttering 
as  she  had  never  fluttered  before, 
"  you  have  so  many  titles  to  my  es- 
teem. 0  no !  that  won't  do.  See, 
sir,  he  does  it  almost  as  well  as  I 
do. 

"  Live,  for  I  love  you  ; 
My  life  is  his  who  saved  that  life  from  harm  ; 
This  pledge  attests  the  valor  of  your  arm." 

Here  look !  "    And  she  returned  him 
his  pocket-book. 

"  His  pocket-book  !  "  said  Nathan, 
his  eyes  glazed  with  wonder.  "  Why, 
how  did  his  tragedy  come  in  his  pock- 
et-book ?  I  mean,  his  pocket-book  in 
his  tragedy  ?  which  is  the  true  part, 
and  which  is  the  lie  ?  O  dear !  the 
dog  has  made  his  father  cry,  and,  now 


2G2 


AET:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


I  have  begun,  I  don't  like  to  leave  off 
somehow."     Then,  before  his  several 
queries  could  be  answered,  he  contin- 
ued, "  So  this  is  play-acting,  and  it 's 
a  sin !    Well,  then,  I  like  it."    And  he  j 
dried  his  eyes,  and  cast  a  look  of  bril- 1 
liant  satisfaction  on  all  the  company.  | 

He  was  then  silent,  but  Alexander 
saw  him  the  next  minute  making 
signals  to  him  to  put  more  fire  and 
determination  into  his  amorous  pro- 
posals. 

Before  he  could  execute  these  in- 
structions, a  clock  on  the  chimney- 
piece  struck  three. 

The  actress  started,  and  literally 
bundled  father  and  son  out  of  the 
house,  for  in  those  day  plays  began  at 
five  o'clock. 

Mrs.  Oldfield,  however,  invited 
them  to  sup  with  her,  conditionally  ; 
if  she  was  not  defeated  in  "  The  Rival 
Queens."  "  If  I  am,"  said  she,  "  it 
will  be  your  interest  to  keep  out  of  my 
way ;  for  of  course  I  shall  attribute  it 
to  the  interruptions  and  distractions 
of  this  morning." 

She  said  this  with  an  arch,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  rather  wicked  look, 
and  Alexander's  face  burned  in  a 
moment. 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  he,  "  I  should  be 
miserable  for  life." 

"  Should  you  ?  "  said  Anne. 

"  You  know  I  must." 

"  Well  then  "  (and  a  single  gleam 
of  lightning  shot  from  her  eyes),  "  I 
must  not  be  defeated." 


At  five  o'clock,  the  theatre  was 
packed  to  the  ceiling,  and  the  curtain 
rose  upon  "  The  Rival  Queens,"  about 
which  play  much  nonsense  has  been 
talked.  It  is  true,  there  is  bombast  in 
it,  and  one  or  two  speeches  that 
smack  of  Bedlam ;  but  there  is  not 
more  bombast  than  in  other  plays  of 
the  epoch,  and  there  is  ten  times  as 
much  fire.  The  play  has  also  some 
excellent  turns  of  language  and  some 
great  strokes  of  nature  ;  in  particular 
the  representation  of  two  different  na- 
tures agitated  to  the  utmost  by  the 


same  passion,  jealousy,  is  full  of 
genius. 

"  The  Rival  Queens  "  is  a  play  for 
the  stage,  not  the  closet.  Its  author 
was  a  great  reader,  and  the  actors 
who  had  the  benefit  of  his  reading 
charmed  the  public  in  all  the  parts, 
but  in  process  of  time  actors  arose 
who  had  not  that  advantage,  and 
"  Alexander  the  Great "  became  too 
much  for  them.  They  could  not 
carry  off  his  smoke,  or  burn  with  his 
fire.  The  female  characters,  however, 
retained  their  popularity  for  many 
years  after  the  death  of  the  author, 
and  of  Betterton,  the  first  "  Alexan- 
der." They  are  the  two  most  equal 
female  characters  that  exist  in  tragedy. 
Slight  preference  is  commonly  given 
by  actors  to  the  part  of  "  Roxana  "  ; 
but  when  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  selected 
that  part,  Mrs.  Oldfield  took  "  Sta- 
tira  "  with  perfect  complacency. 

The  theatre  was  full,  the  audience 
in  an  unusual  state  of  excitement. 

The  early  part  of  the  first  act  re- 
ceived but  little  attention.  At  length 
Statira  glided  on  the  scene.  She  was 
greeted  with  considerable  applause; 
in  answer  to  which,  she  did  not  duck 
and  grin,  according  to  rule,  but, 
sweeping  a  rapid,  yet  dignified  courte- 
sy, she  barely  indicated  her  acknowl- 
edgments, remaining  Statira. 

"  Qive  me  a  knife,  a  draught  of  poison, 

flames  ! 

Swell,  heart !  break,  break,  thou  stubborn 
thing  !  " 

Her  predecessors  had  always  been 
violent  in  this  scene.  Mrs.  Oldfield 
made  distress  its  prominent  sentiment. 
The  critics  thought  her  too  quiet,  but 
she  stole  upon  the  hearts  of  the  audi- 
ence, and  enlisted  their  sympathy  on 
her  side  before  the  close  of  the  act 

Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  who  stood  at  the 
wing  during  the  scene,  turned  round 
to  her  toady,  and  said,  shrugging  her 
shoulders :  "  O,  if  that  is  all  the  lady 
can  do ! " 

In  the  third  act  Mrs.  Bracegirdle 
made    her    entr€e  with    great    spirit, 
speaking,  as  she  came  on,  the  line, 
"  0,  you  have  ruined  me  !  I  shall  be  mad  !  " 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


263 


She  was  received  with  great  ap- 
plause, on  which  she  instantly 
dropped  Iloxana,  and  became  Mrs. 
Bracegirdle,  all  wreathed  in  smiles  ; 
the  applause  being  ended,  she  returned 
to  Roxana  as  quickly  as  it  is  possible 
to  do  after  such  a  deviation.  She 
played  the  scene  with  immense  spirit 
and  fire,  and  the  applause  was  much 
greater  than  Statira  had  obtained  in 
the  first  act. 

Applause  is  the  actor's  test  of  suc- 
cess. 

The  two  queens  now  came  into 
collision,  and  their  dialogue  is  so 
dramatic,  that  I  hope  I  may  be  ex- 
cused for  quoting  it,  with  all  its 
faults :  — 

Roxana.   Madam,  I  hope  you  will  a  queen 

forgive  ; 

Roxana  weeps  to  see  Statira  grieve  ; 
How  noble  is  the  brave  resolve  you  make, 
To  quit  the  world  for  Alexander's  sake  ! 
Vast  is  your  mind,  you  dare  thus  greatly  die, 
And  yield  the  king  to  one  so  mean  as  I ; 
'T  is  a  revenge  will  make  the  victor  smart, 
And  much  I  fear  your  death  will  break  his 

heart. 
Statira.    You    counterfeit,    I    fear,    and 

know  too  well 

How  much  your  eyes  all  beauties  else  excel : 
lloxaua,  who,  though  not  a  princess  born, 
In  chains  could    make    the    mighty  victor 

mourn. 
Forgetting  power  when  wine  had  made  him 

warm, 
And   senseless,  yet  even  then  you  knew  to 

charm  : 

Preserve  him  by  those  arts  that  cannot  fail, 
While  I  the  loss  of  what  Hove  bewail. 

Roxana.    I  hope  your  majesty  will  give 

me  leave 
To  wait  you  to  the  grove,  where  you  would 

•    grieve  j 

Where,  like  the  turtle,  you  the  loss  will  moan 
Of  that  dear  mate,  and  murmur  all  alone. 
Statira.    No,   proud  triumpher   o'er  my 

falling  state, 

Thou  shalt  not  stay  to  fill  me  with  my  fate  ; 
Go  to  the  conquest  which  your  wiles  may  boast, 
And  tell  the  world  you  left  Statira  lost. 
Go  seize  my  faithless  Alexanders  hand, 
Both  hand  and  heart  were  once  at  my  com- 
mand ; 
Grasp  his  loved  neck,  die  on  hia  fragrant 

breast, 

Love  him  like  me  whose  love  can't  be  ex- 
pressed. 

He  must  be  happy,  and  you  more  than  blest, 
While  I  in  darkness  hide  me  from  the  day, 
That  with  my  mind  I  may  his  form  survey, 
And  think  so  long,  till  I  think  life  away. 


Roxana.    No,  sickly  virtue,  no, 

Thou  shalt  not  think,  nor  thy  lovo's  loss  be- 
moan, 

Nor  shall  past  pleasures  through  thy  fancy 
run  ; 

That  were  to  make  thee  blest  as  I  can  be  ; 

But  'thy  no-thought  I  must,  I  will  decree  ; 

As  thus,  I  '11  torture  thee  till  thou  art  mad. 

And  then  no  thought  to  purpose  can  be  had. 
Statira.    How    frail,    how    cowardly,    ia 
woman's  mind  ! 

We  shriek  at  thunder,  dread  the  rustling 
wind, 

And  glittering  swords  the  brightest  eyes  will 
blind  ; 

Yet  when  strong  jealousy  inflames  the  goul, 

The  weak  will  roar,  and  calms  to  tempests 
roll.- 

Bival,  take  heed,  and  tempt  me   not  too 
'     far; 

My  blood  may  boil,  and  blushes  show    a 

war. 

Roxana.    When  you  retire  to  your  ro- 
mantic cell, 

I  '11  make  thy  solitary  mansion  hell ! 

Thou  ehalt  not  rest  by  day,  nor  sleep  by 
night, 

But  still  Iloxana  shall  thy  spirit  fright ; 

Wanton  in  dreams  if  thou  dar'st  dream  of 
bliss, 

Thy  roving  ghost  may  think  to  steal  a  kiss  ; 

But  when  to  his  sought  bed  thy  wandering 
air 

Shall  for  the  happiness  it  wished  repair, 

How  will  it  groan  to  find  thy  rival  there  ? 

How  ghastly  wilt  thou  look  when  thou  shalt 
see, 

Through  the  drawn  curtains,  that  great  man 
and  me, 

Wearied  with  laughing  joys  shot  to  the  soul, 

While  thou  shalt  grinning  stand,  and  gnash 

thy  teeth,  and  howl ! 

Slatira.    0  barbarous  rage  !  my  tears  I 
cannot  keep, 

But  my  full  eyes  in  spite  of  me  will  weep. 
Roxana.    The  king  and  I  in  various  pic- 
tures drawn, 

Clasping  each  other,  shaded  o'er  with  lawn, 

Shall  be  the  daily  presents  I  will  send, 

To  help  thy  sorrow  to  her  journey's  end  : 

And  when   we  hear  at  last  thy  hour  draws 
nigh, 

My  Alexander,  my  dear  love,  and  I, 

Will  come  and  hasten  on  thy  lingering  fates, 

And  smile  and  kiss  thy  soul  out  through  the 

grates. 

Statira.    'Tis  well,  I  thank  thee;  thou 
hast  waked  a  rage, 

Whose  boiling  now  no  temper  can  assuage ; 

I  meet  thy  tides  of  jealousy  with  more, 

Dare  thee  to  duel,  and  dash  thee  o'er  and 

o'er. 

'Roxana.    What  would  you  dare  ? 
Statira.    Whatever  you  dare  do, 

My  warring  thoughts  the  bloodiest  tracts  pur- 
sue ; 

I  am  by  love  a  fury  made,  like  you  ; 

Kill  or  be  killed,  thus  acted  by  despair. 


2G4 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


Roxana.    Sure  the  disdained  Statira  does 

not  dare !  » 

Statira.    Yes,  towering  proud  Roxana,  but 

I  dare. 

Roxana.    I  tower  indeed  o'er  thee  ; 
Like  a  fair  wood,  the  shade  of  kings  I  stand, 
While  thou,  sick  weed,  dost  but  infest  the 

land. 
Statira.    No,  like  an  ivy  I  will  curl  thee 

round, 

Thy  sapless  trunk  of  all  its  prida  confound, 
Then,  dry  and  withered,  bend  thee  to  the 

ground. 

What  Sysigambis'  threats,  objected  fears, 
My  sister's  sighs,  and  Alexander's  tears, 
Could  not  effect,  thy  rival  rage  has  done  ; 
My  soul,  whose  start  »t  breach  of  oaths  be- 
gun, 

Shall  to  thy  ruin  violated  run.  '  B 

I  '11  see  the  king  in  spite  of  all  I  swore, 
Though  cursed,  that  thou  mayst  never  see 
him  more. 

In  this  female  duel  Statira  appeared 
to  great  advantage.  She  exhibited 
the  more  feminine  character  of  the 
two.  The  marked  variety  of  senti- 
ment she  threw  into  each  speech  con- 
trasted favorably  witli  the  other's 
somewhat  vixenish  monotony;  and 
every  now  and  then  she  gave  out  vol- 
canic flashes  of  great  power,  all  the 
more  effective  for  the  artful  reserve 
she  had  hitherto  made  of  her  physical 
resources.  The  effect  was  electrical 
when  she,  the  tender  woman,  sudden- 
ly wheeled  upon  her  opponent  with 
the  words,  "  Rival,  take  heed,"  etc. 
And  now  came  the  climax ;  now  it 
was  that  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  paid  for 
her  temporary  success.  She  had  gone 
to  the  end  of  her  tether  long  ago,  but 
her  antagonist  had  been  working  on 
the  great  principle  of  Art,  —  Climax. 
She  now  put  forth  the  strength  she 
had  economized ;  at  each  speech  she 
rose  and  swelled  higher,  and  higher, 
and  higher.  Her  frame  dilated,  her 
voice  thundered,  her  eyes  lightened, 
and  she  swept  the  audience  with  her 
in  the  hurricane  of  her  passion. 
There  was  a  moment's  dead  silence, 
and  then  the  whole  theatre  burst  into 
acclamations,  which  were  renewed 
again  and  again  ere  the  play  was  suf- 
fered to  proceed.  At  the  close  of  the 
scene  Statira  had  overwhelmed  Rox- 
ana ;  and,  as  here  she  had  electrified 
the  audience,  so  in  the  concluding 


I  passage  of  the  play  she  melted  them 
I  to  tears,  —  the  piteous  anguish  of  her 

regret  at  being  separated  by  death 

from  her  lover ;  — 

"What,  must  I  lose  my  life,  my  lord,  for- 
ever? " 

And  then  her  pitying  tenderness 
for  his  sorrow  ;  and  then  her  prayer 
to  him  to  live ;  and,  last,  that  exqui- 
site touch  of  woman's  love,  more  an- 
gelic than  man's,  — 

"  Spare  Roxana's  life  ; 
"  T  was  love  of  you  that  caused  her  give  me 
death  "  ; 

and  her  death,  with  no  thought  but 
love,  love,  love,  upon  her  lips  ;  —  all 
this  was  rendered  so  tenderly  and  so 
divinely,  that  no  heart  was  untouched, 
and  few  eyes  were  dry  now  in  the 
crowded  theatre.  Statira  died ;  the 
other  figures  remained  upon  the 
,  stage,  but  to  the  spectators  the  play 
j  was  over ;  and  when  the  curtain  fell 
there  was  but  one  cry,  "  Oldfield  !  " 
"  Oldfield ! " 

In  those  days  people  conceived 
opinions  of  their  own  in  matters  dra- 
matic, and  expressed  them  then  and 
there.  Roma  locuta  est,  and  Nance 
Oldfield  walked  into  her  dressing- 
room  the  queen  of  the  English  stage. 

Two  figures  in  the  pit  had  watched 
this  singular  battle  with  thrilling  in- 
terest. Alexander  sympathized  al- 
ternately with  the  actress  as  well  as 
the  queen.  Nathan,  to  tell  the  truth, 
after  hanging  his  head  most  sheep- 
ishly for  the  first  five  minutes,  yield- 
ed wholly  to  the  illusion  of  the  stage, 
and  was  "  transported  out  of  this  ig- 
norant present '  altogether  ;  to  him 
Roxana  and  Statira  were  bona  fide 
queens,  women,  and  rivals.  The 
Oldworthys  were  seated  in  Critics' 
Row ;  and  tifter  a  while,  Nathan's  en- 
thusiasm and  excitement  disturbed 
old  gentlemen  who  came  to  judge 
two  actresses,  not  to  drink  poetry  all 
alive  O. 

His  neighbors  proposed  to  eject 
Nathan ;  the  said  Nathan  on  this 
gave  them  a  catalogue  of  actions,  any 
one  of  which,  he  said,  would  re-cstab- 


AKT:    A  DRAMATIC   TALE. 


205 


lish  his  constitutional  rights,  and 
give  him  his  remedy  in  the  shape  of 
damages ;  he  wound  up  with  letting 
them  know  he  was  an  attorney  at  law. 
On  this  they  abandoned  the  idea  of 
meddling  with  him  as  hastily  as  boys 
drop  the  baked  half-pence  in  a  scram- 
ble provided  by  their  philanthropical 
seniors.  So  now  Mrs.  Oldfield  was 
queen  of  the  stage,  and  Alexander 
had  access  to  her  as  her  admirer,  and 
Nathan  had  a  long  private  talk  with 
her,  and  then  with  some  misgivings 
went  down  to  Coventry. 

A  story  ought  to  end  with  a  mar- 
riage :  ought  it  not  ?  Well,  this  one 
does  not,  because  there  are  reasons 
that  compel  the  author  to  tell  the 
truth.  The  poet  did  not  marry  the 
actress,  and  beget  tragedies  and  com- 
edies. Love  does  not  always  end  in 
marriage,  even  behind  the  scenes  of  a 
theatre.  But  it  led  to  a  result,  the 
value  of  which  my  old  readers  know, 
and  my  young  ones  Avill  learn,  —  it 
led  to  a  very  tender  and  lifelong 
friendship.  And  O,  how  few  out  of 
the  great  aggregate  of  love  affairs 
lead  to  so  high,  or  so  good,  or  so  af- 
fectionate a  permanency  as  is  a  ten- 
der friendship ! 

One  afternoon  Mrs.  Oldfield  wrote 
rather  a  long  letter  thus  addressed  in 
the  fashion  of  the  day  :  — 

To  Mr.  Nathan  Oldworthy, 

Attorney  at  Law, 
In  the  Town  of  Coventry, 
At  his  house  there  in  the  Market  Street. 
This,  with  all  despatch. 

Nathan  read  it,  and  said,  "  God 
forgive  me  for  thinking  ill  of  any 
people,  because  of  their  business  ! " 
and  his  eyes  filled. 

The  letter  described  to  Nathan  an 
interview  the  actress  had  with  Al- 
exander. That  interview  (several 
months  after  our  tale)  was  a  long, 
and,  at  some  moments,  a  distressing 
one,  especially  to  poor  Alexander; 
but  it  had  been  long  meditated,  and 
was  firmly  carried  out ;  in  that  inter- 
view this  generous  woman  conferred 
one  of  the  greatest  benefactions  on 
12 


Alexander  one  human  being  can 
hope  to  confer  on  another.  She  per- 
suaded a  Dramatic  Author  to  turn 
Attorney.  He  was  very  reluctant 
then ;  and  very  grateful  afterwards. 
These  two  wefe  never  to  one  another 
as  though  all  had  never  been.  They 
were  friends  as  long  as  they  wejrc  on 
earth  together.  This  was  not  so  very 
long.  Alexander  lived  to  eighty -six ; 
but  the  great  Oldfield  died  at  forty- 
seven.  Whilst  she  lived,  she  always 
consulted  her  Alexander  in  all  diffi- 
culties. One  day  she  sent  for  him ; 
and  he  came  sadly  to  her  bedside ;  it 
was  to  make  her  will.  He  was  sad- 
der than  she  was.  She  died.  She 
lay  in  state  like  a  royal  queen  ;  and 
noblemen  and  gentlemen  vied  to  hold 
her  pall  as  they  took  her  to  the  home 
she  had  earned  in  Westminster  Ab- 
bey. Alexander,  faithful  to  the  last, 
carried  out  all  her  last  requests  ;  and 
he  tried,  poor  soul,  to  rescue  her 
Fame  from  the  cruel  fate  that  awaits 
the  great  arti^s  of  the  scene,  —  ob- 
livion. He  wrote  her  epitaph.  It  is 
first-rate  of  its  kind ;  and  prime  Latin 
for  once  in  a  way :  — 

Hie  juxta  requiescit 
Tot  inter  Poetarum  laudata  nomina 

ANNA  OLDFIELD. 

Nee  ipsa  minore  laude  digna. 

Nunquam  ingenium  idem  ad  partes 

diversissimas  nobilius  fuit. 

Ita  tamen  ut  ad  singulas 

non  facta  sed  nata  ease  videretur. 

In  Tragoediis 
FormsB  splendor,  oris  dignitas,  incessus 

majestas, 

Tanta  vocis  suayitate  temperabantur 
Ut  nemo  esset  tarn  agrestis  tarn  durus 

spectator. 
Quin  in  admirationem  totus  raperetur. 

In-Como3dia  autem 
Tanta  vis,  tarn  venusta  hilaritas, 

Tarn  curiosa  felicitas, 
Ut  neque  sufficerent  spectando  oculi, 
Neque  plaudendo  maims. 

There,  brother,  I  have  done  what  I 
can  for  your  sweetheart,  and  I  have 
reprinted  your  Epitaph,  after  one 
hundred  years. 

But  neither  you  nor  I,  nor  all  our 
pens,  can  fight  against  the  laws  that 
rule  the  Arts.  Each  of  the  great 
Arts  fails  in  something,  is  unap- 


26G 


ART:    A  DRAMATIC  TALE. 


proachably  great  in  others  (of  that 
anon).  The  great  Artists  of  the 
Scene  are  paid  in  cash  ;  they  cannot 
draw  bills  at  fifty  years'  date. 

They  are  meteors  that  blaze  in  the 
world's  eye,  —  and  vanish. 

We  are  farthing  candles  that  cast 
a  gleam  all  around  four  yards  square, 
for  hours  and  hours. 

Alexander  lived  a  life  of  business, 
honest,  honorable,  and  graceful  too ; 
for  the  true  poetic  feeling  is  ineradi- 
cable ;  it  colors  a  man's  life,  —  is 
not  colored  by  it.  And  when  he  had 
reached  a  great  old  age,  it  befell  that 
Alexander  s  sight  grew  dim,  and  his 
spirit  was  weary  of  the  great  city, 
and  'his  memory  grew  weak,  and  he 
forgot  parchments,  and  dates,  and  re- 
ports, and  he  began  to  remember,  as 
though  it  was  yesterday,  the  pleasant 


fields,  where  he  had  played  among 
the  lambs  and  the  buttercups  in  ilio 
morning  of  his  days.  And  the  old 
man  said  calmly,  "  Vixi  !  There- 
fore now  1  will  go  down,  and  sc-c 
once  more  those  pleasant  fields ;  and 
I  will  sit  in  the  sun  a  little  while ; 
and  then  I  will  lie  beside  my  father 
in  the  old  churchyard."  And  he  did 
so.  It  is  near  a  hundred  years  ago 
now. 

So  Anne  Oldfield  sleeps  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  near  the  poets  whose 
thoughts  took  treble  glory  from  her, 
while  she  adorned  the  world.  And 
Alexander  Oldworthy  lies  humbly 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  great  old 
lofty  spire  in  the  town  of  Coventry. 

Requiescaut  in  pace  ! 

"  And  all  Christian  souls,  I  pray 
Heaven." 


PROPRIA    QILE    MARIBUS. 


A    JEU    D'ESPRIT. 


NOTE. 

Tmsjeu  d'esprit  was  written  some  years  ago,  before  the  Author  was  so  for- 
tunate as  to  establish  friendly  relations  with  American  Publishers,  and,  may 
he  venture  to  say  ?  with  the  American  Public.  He  has  a  reason  for  wishing 

this  to  be  known. 

C.  K. 

LONDON,  September,  1857. 


PROPRIA    QUJ;   MARIBUS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

JOHN  COURTENAY  was  the  son 
of  Richard  Courtenay.  Richard 
was  the  younger  son  of  a  good  Devon- 
shire family  :  his  elder  brother  inher- 
ited four  thousand  a  year,  —  he  fifteen 
hundred  pounds  down,  from  the  same 
relative,  his  father,  —  vive  I' Angleterre  ! 

His  fifteen  hundred  pounds  would  n't 
do  in  a  genteel  country  like  England  : 
so  he  went  to  America  and  commerce. 
He  died  richer  than  the  owner  of 
Courtenay  Court. 

John,  his  son,  was  richer  still  by 
the  same  honorable  means. 

He  was  also  a  stanch  republican  : 
the  unparalleled  rise  and  grandeur  of 
the  United  States  might  well  recom- 
mend their  institutions  to  any  candid 
mind ;  and  John  Courtenay  spent  his 
leisure  moments  in  taking  the  gloss 
off  John  Bull's  hide  :  he  was  not  so 
spiteful  against  him  as  some  of  those 
gentry  who  owe  their  cleverness  to 
themselves,  but  their  existence  to 
Bull,  and  forget  it :  his  line  was  rath- 
er cool  contempt ;  the  old  country  was 
worn  out  and  decayed  :  progressing 
like  a  crab  instead  of  going  ahead, 
etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

For  all  this,  one  fine  day  something 
seemed  to  crack  inside  John  Courte- 
nay's  bosom,  when  he  saw  an  an- 
nouncement from  the  modest  pen  of 
Robins  that  Courtenay  Court  was  in 
the  market. 

He  did  not  think  such  an  adver- 
tisement would  have  interested  him 
any  more  than  Consols  96  and  a  half, 
—  but  it  did. 


This  gentleman  was  at  the  moment 
working  a  loan  at  5  per  cent  with 
Kentucky,  and  he  had  promised  him- 
self to  be  in  it  to  the  tune  of  £  50,000 ; 
but  all  this  day  he  took  more  snuff 
than  was  good  for  him,  and  the  next 
day,  after  breakfast  and  a  revery,  he 
suddenly  burst  out, "  Pshaw !  the  worst 
investment,  in  the  worst  country ;  a 
sinking  interestin  a  sinking  kingdom." 

"  Papa ! "  said  a  musical  voice, 
"  your  paying  me  no  attention  will,  I 
fear,  end  in  your  being  worried." 

This  worrying  meant  a  certain  vio- 
lent system  of  kissing,  with  which  the 
speaker  used  to  fall  upon  John  Courte- 
nay when  he  was  very  good,  or  very 
bad :  she  used  it  indifferently  as  a  re- 
ward or  punishment.  * 

This  time,  to  her  surprise,  the  old 
gentleman  answered  her  smiling  threat 
by  opening  his  arms  in -a  minute,  and 
saying,  "  My  child  !  " 

In  another  moment  Caroline  Courte- 
nay was  in  his  arms ;  he  pressed  his 
lips  to  her  brow  and  said,  "  I  will  do 
it !  I  will  do  it !  " 

"  What  will  you  do,  papa  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  business,  I  reckon," 
said  he,  recovering  the  statesman  and 
man  of  business  with  rather  a  brusque 
reaction :  and  off  he  bustled  to  Wall 
Street,  "  where  merchants  most  do 
congregate."  Shakespeare  hem ! 

Caroline  stood  irresolute  and  had  a 
mind  to  whimper.  She  thought  her 
affection  had  been  for  once  half  re- 
pulsed. 

Caroline  !  doubt  anything  —  every- 
thing —  but  a  parent's  love  for  his 
only  child. 


272 


PKOPRIA 


MABIBUS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  three  weeks  after  this  the  ham- 
mer came  to  Courtenay  Court ;  and 
tiiat  hammer  was  wielded  (I  use 
the  term  he  would  have  selected) 
by  the  St.  George  of  the  auction- 
room. 

Need  I  say  the  wood  and  water  of 
the  estate  had  previously  been  painted 
in  language  as  flowing  as  the  one  and 
as  exuberant  as  the  foliage  of  the 
other  ? 

In  the  large  hall  were  two  fire- 
places, where  piles  of  beech  log  blazed 
and  crackled. 

Mr.  Robins  made  his  bow  and  up 
went  Courtenajr  Court,  manor,  and 
lordship,  in  a  single  lot. 

There  were  present,  besides  farmers, 
some  forty  country  gentlemen,  many 
of  whom  looked  business  :  they  had 
not  examined  their  own  horizon,  as 
John  Courtenay,  merchant,  had. 
Land  was  in  vogue  with  them. 

I  don't  wonder  at  it  Certainly  a 
landed  estate  is  "  an  animal  with  its 
mouth  always  open."  But  compare 
the  physical  perception  and  enjoyment 
of  landed  wealth  with  that  of  consols 
and  securities. 

Can  I  get  me  rosy  cheeks,  health, 
and  good-humor  riding  up  and  down 
my  Peruvian  bonds  ?  can  I  go  out 
shooting  upon  my  parchment,  or  in 
summer  sit  under  the  shadow  of  my 
mortgage  deed  and  bob  for  commas 
and  troll  for  semicolons  in  my  river  of 
ink  that  meanders  through  my  mead- 
ow of  sheepskin  ? 

Wherefore  I  really  think  land  will 
always  tempt  even  the  knowing  ones, 
until  some  vital  change  shall  take 
place  in  society  ;  for  instance,  till  the 
globe  makes  its  exit  in  smoke,  and 
the  blue  curtain  comes  down  on  the 
creation. 

Three  or  four  gentlemen  held  the 
bidding  up  till  about  thirty  thousand 
pounds  ;  it  then  became  flat. 

And  now  one  Adam  Eaves,  a  farm- 
er, pushed  sheepishly  forward,  made 
an  advance  on  the  bidding,  and  looked 
ashamed. 


Why  lookest  thou  ashamed,  0  yeo- 
man, Bulwark  of  our  Isle  ? 

This  is  why  ?  Adam  Eaves  farmed 
two  farms  ;  and  he  had  for  three  years 
been  praying  both  his  landlords  for 
decrease  of  rent,  upon  grounds  that 
nowise  tallied  with  his  little  offer  of 
thirty  thousand  one  hundred  pounds 
down  on  the  nail  for  Courtenay  Man- 
or ;  and  therefore  looked  he  ashamed, 
the  simple-minded  yeoman,  Bulwark 
of  our  tie. 

Joshua  Tanner,  linen-draper  in  the 
market-town,  he  whose  cry  for  ten 
years  had  been  the  decay  of  retail 
trade,  was  so  surprised  at  this,  that, 
thrown  off  his  guard,  he  bid  an  hun- 
dred more ;  but,  the  mask  once  thrown 
off,  he  blushed  not,  but  sprinkled  in- 
sulting arrogance  on  all  around. 

Both  these  worthies,  who,  unlike  us 
writers,  had  for  years  announced 
themselves  beneath  their  true  value, 
gave  way  to  heavier  metal,  and  the 
estate  began  to  reach  its  real  wortli ; 
it  was  at  £  38,000. 

There  was  a  pause.  St.  George 
looked  jocose,  and  felt  uneasy.  Were 
they  running  cunning  like  their  own 
hounds,  these  south  country  gentle- 
men ? 

He  now  looked  carefully  all  round 
the  room :  a  long,  attenuated  figure 
with  a  broad-brimmed  hat  on,  stand- 
ing by  a  distant  window,  met  his  eye, 
and,  as  if  to  oblige  him,  now  for  the 
first  time  made  a  cool,  nonchalant 
bid  by  nodding  his  head  ;  round  we*nt 
all  the  company  on  their  heels  with 
their  backs  to  the  auctioneer,  as  when, 
in  the  last  row  of  the  Pit,  two  person- 
ages of  this  our  day  go  to  fisticuffs,  I 
have  seen  the  audience  turn  its  back 
on  the  quarrel  of  Brutus  and  Cassius, 
or  Melantius  and  Amyntor. 

Forty  two,  three,  four  thousand  were 
reached  ;  two  country  gentlemen  bid- 
ders turned  red  and  white,  —  the  pin 
bid  on,  rythmicaHy,  at  measured  in- 
tervals, like  a  chaff-cutting  machine, 
unconscious  of  opposition,  indifferent 
to  result. 

The  estate  was  now  at  thirty  years 
purchase;  ahum  that  went  round  tho 


PROPRIA  QILE  MARIBUS. 


273 


room  announced  this  fact  without  a 
word  spoken.  All  the  hounds  had 
tailed  off  but  one.  He  went  on  ;  the 
two  bidders  were  strangely  contrast- 
ed ;  it  seemed  odd  they  could  both 
want  the  same  thing.  In  shape  one 
was  like  a  pin ;  the  other  a  pin- cush- 
ion. 

Our  friend  at  the  window  was  all 
one  color,  like  wash-leather,  or  an  act- 
or by  daylight ;  the  other,  with  his 
head  of  white  hair  as  thick  as  a  boy's, 
and  his  red  brown  cheeks,  and  his 
bright  eye,  reflected  comfort  as  bright- 
ly as  Hampton  Court  with  its  red 
brick  and  white  facings,  and  cheered 
the  eye  like  old  Sun  and  old  Frost  bat- 
tling for  a  December  day. 

At  last  the  thin  and  sallow  person- 
age uttered  these  words  :  "  Forty-sev- 
en thousand  pounds  ! "  in  a  nasal 
twang,  that  seemed  absurdly  unjust 
to  the  grand  ideas  such  words  excite 
in  elegant  minds  conscious  how  many 
refined  pleasures  can  be  had  for 
£  47,000. 

His  antagonist's  head  sunk  for  a 
moment. 

He  sighed,  and,  instead  of  bidding 
higher,  or  holding  his  tongue,  the  two 
business  alternatives  open  to  him,  he 
said,  "  Then  it  will  never  be  mine!  " 

He  said  this  so  simply,  yet  with  so 
much  pain,  that  some  of  those  good 
souls,  who,  unless  they  have  two  days 
to  think  it  over  with  their  wives  or 
sisters,  are  sure  to  take  the  pathetic 
for  the  ludicrous,  horse-laughed  at 
him. 

He  turned  away.  Mr.  Eobins  did 
not  waste  a  second  in  idle  flourishes  ; 
"  When  a  thing  is  settled,  end  it," 
thought  he  ;  he  knocked  the  lot  down 
now  as  he  would  a  china  teapot  in  a 
sale  of  200  lots,  —  and  the  old  oaks 
of  Courtenay  bowed  their  heads  to  a 
Yankee  merchant. 

The  buyer  stepped  up  to  the  auc- 
tioneer. 

Mr.  Ralph  Seymour,  the  last  bid- 
der, made  for  the  door :  at  the  door 
he  buttoned  with  difficulty  his  coat 
over  his  breast,  for  his  heart  was 
swelling  and  his  eye  glistened,  —  it 
12* 


was  a  bitter  disappointment,  —  we 
who  live  in  towns  can  hardly  think 
how  bitter.  Such  sales  do  not  come 
every  day  in  the  country  :  his  estate 
marched  for  a  mile  and  a  half  with 
the  Courtenays.  He  had  counted  on 
no  competition  but  that  of  his  neigh- 
bors :  he  had  bought  it  from  them : 
but  a  man  who  happened  to  want  an 
estate  had  come  from  London,  or,  as 
it  was  now  whispered,  from  New  York. 
Any  other  estate  would  have  suited 
him  as  well,  but  he  would  have  this. 

Poor  old  gentleman  !  He  had  told 
Mrs.  Seymour  she  should  walk  this 
evening  under  the  great  birch-trees 
of  the  Courtenays,  —  and  they  be 
hers  ! 

They  had  been  married  40  years, 
and  he  had  never  broken  his  word  to 
her  before. 

The  auctioneer  read  the  buyer's 
card. 

"  Sold  to  Mr.  Jonathan  Sims," 
said  he,  responding  to  the  open  curi- 
osity of  the  company. 

"  Ugh  !  "  went  one  or  two  provin- 
cials, and  then  dead  silence. 

"Acting,"  continued  the  auction- 
eer, "  for  Mr.  John  Courtenay  of  New 
York." 

There  was  a  pause,  —  a  hurried 
buzz,  —  and  then,  to  Mr.  Sims's  sur- 
prise, a  thundering  "  Hurrah  !  "  burst 
out  that  made  the  rafters  ring  and  the 
windows  rattle. 

"  It 's  Master  Kichard's  son," 
shouted  Adam  Eaves  ;  "  My  father  's 
ridden  many  's  the  time  with  Master 
Richard,  he  rode  the  mule,  and  father 
the  jenny-ass  after  Squire  Courte- 
nay's  hounds,  HUHRAIH  !  " 

Omnes.    "  Hurraih  !  " 

The  thorough-bred  old  John  Bull 
at  the  door,  Mr.  Ralph  Seymour, 
seemed  glad  of  an  excuse  to  get  rid . 
of  some  bile  foreign  to  his  nature. 
In  three  strides  he  was  alongside 
Jonathan,  and  had  he  been  French 
it  was  plain  he  would  have  said  some- 
thing worth  repeating,  but  as  he  was 
only  English  he  grasped  Mr.  Sims's 
hand  like  a  vice,  and  —  asked  him  to 
dinner ! 

K 


274 


PROPRIA  QILE  MAEIBUS. 


That  is  the  English  idea,  —  you 
must  ask  a  gentleman  to  dinner,  and 
you  must  give  a  poor  man  a  day's 
work,  —  that  wins  him. 

John  Courtenay  came  home :  I 
coolly  omit  the  objections  he  took 
chemin  faisant  to  things  in  the  old 
country.  They  would  fill  a  volume 
with  just  remonstrance. 

He  came  to  his  own  lodge  gate,  — 
the  old  man  who  opened  it  sung 
out:  — 

"  Oh  !  Master  John,  how  like  you 
be  to  Master  Richard,  surety." 

Courtenay  was  astonished ;  he 
found  this  old  boy  had  been  thinking 
of  him  all  that  way  off  for  sixty  years, 
ever  since  his  birth  transpired. 

The  old  housekeeper  welcomed  him 
with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

He  dined  in  a  room  enriched  with 
massive  old  carvings  ;  he  walked  after 
dinner  under  his  avenue  of  birches 
with  silver  stems  of  gigantic  thick- 
ness and  patriarchal  age.  The  house- 
keeper put  him  in  a  bed  his  father  had 
slept  in  when  a  boy. 

Soon  the  country  gentlemen  made 
acquaintance  with  him.  The  strong 
idea  of  distributive  justice  he  had 
brought  from  Commerce,  and  his 
business  habits,  caused  him  to  be  con- 
sulted and  valued. 

It  is  a  fact  that  after  some  months 
in  Devonshire  he  developed  a  trait  or 
two  of  Toryism ;  but  they  could  not 
make  him  believe  that  nations  are 
the  property  of  Bangs,  and  countries 
their  home  farms.  They  did  all  they 
could  think  of  to  corrupt  him.  They 
made  him  perforce  a  justice  of  the 
peace ;  he  remonstrated  and  pooh- 
poohed,  but  was  no  sooner  one  than 
he  infused  fresh  blood  into  the  with- 
ered veins  of  justice  in  his  district. 

He  became  a  referee  in  all  nice 
matters  of  rural  equity.  In  short  his 
neighbors  had  all  overcome  any  little 
prejudice,  and  had  learned  his  value 
when  —  they  lost  him.  His  time  was 
come  to  close  an  honorable  life  by  a 
peaceful  death. 

Short  as  had  been  his  career  among 
them,  the  whole  county  followed  him 


to  his  resting-place  among  the  Courte- 
nays  in  Conyton  Church  vault. 

He  left  all  his  land  and  all  his 
money  by  will  to  his  daughter;  to 
his  will  he  attached  a  paper  contain- 
ing some  requests. 

One  was  that  she  would  provide  for 
the  aged  housekeeper,  and  lodge-keep- 
er, who  knew  her  father  and  welcomed 
him  home,  —  he  called  it  home  !  But 
there  was  nothing  about  where  he 
wished  her  to  live :  he  did  not  de- 
cide the  great  little  question,  is  Amer- 
ica or  England  the  right  place  for  us 
globules  to  swell  and  burst  in  ? 

In  other  words,  when  he  wrote 
these  memoranda,  John  Courtenay 
was  dying,  and  thought  less  about  the 
kingdom  whence  came  his  root,  or  the 
state  where  his  flowers  had  bloomed, 
than  of  a  country  he  had  learned  to 
look  towards  by  being  neither  Yankee 
nor  Briton  so  much  as  an  honest,  God- 
fearing man.  So  his  thoughts  were 
now  upon  a  land,  older  than  Little 
England,  broader  than  the  Great  Unit- 
ed States  ;  a  land  where  Americans 
and  English  are  brothers. 

And  I  warn  them,  and  all  men,  to 
be  brothers  here,  lest  they  never  see 
that  land. 

Caroline  Courtenay  remained  at 
New  York.  There  was  little  to  tempt 
her  to  leave  her  birthplace,  and  visit 
the  country  which  seemed  to  her  to 
have  robbed  her  of  her  father. 

It  happened,  however,  almost  three 
years  after  Mr.  Courtenay's  death, 
that  a  fresh  circumstance  changed  her 
feeling  in  that  respect. 

Young  Reginald  Seymour,  who  had 
come  to  see  the  States,  had  brought 
letters  of  introduction  to  her,  and  had 
prolonged  his  stay  from  a  fortnight 
to  eight  months  :  and  he  was  eloquent 
in  praise  of  Courtenay  Court,  and  of 
his  father's  place  which  adjoined  it ; 
and  what  Reginald  praised  Caroline 
desired  to  see. 

Miss  Courtenay  combined  two  qual- 
ities which  are  generally  seen  in  op- 
position, —  beauty  and  wit.  On  her 
wit,  however,  she  had  latterly  cast 
some  doubt  by  a  trick  she  had  fallen 


PEOPRIA  QILE  MAEIBUS. 


275 


into.  She  had  been  detected  thinking 
for  herself,  —  ay,  more  than  once. 
This  came  of  being  left  an  orphan, 
poor  thing ;  she  had  no  one  to  warn 
her  day  by  day  against  this  habit, 
which  is  said  always  to  lead  her  sex 
into  trouble,  —  when  they  venture  up- 
on it :  luckily  they  don't  do  it  very 
often. 

Wealth,  wit,  and  beauty,  meeting 
with  young  blood,  were  enough  to 
spoil  a  character  :  all  they  had  done 
in  this  case  was  to  give  her  a  more 
decided  one  than  most  young  ladies 
of  her  age  have,  or  could  carry  with- 
out spilling. 

It  so  happened  one  day  that  a  ques- 
tion much  agitated  in  parts  of  the 
United  States  occupied  a  semicircle 
of  ladies,  of  whom  Miss  Courtenay 
was  one.  This  was  a  new  costume, 
introduced  by  a  highly  respectable 
lady,  the  editor  of  a  paper  called  the 
"  Lily,"  and  wife  of  a  lawyer  of  some 
eminence  at  Seneca  Falls. 

The  company  generally  were  very 
severe  on  this  costume,  and  proceeded 
upwards  from  the  pantalets  to  the 
morals  of  the  inventor,  which,  though 
approved  at  Seneca  by  simple  obser- 
vation, were  depreciated  at  New  York 
by  intelligent  inference. 

When  the  conversation  began,  Miss 
Courtenay  looked  do\yn  on  the  Bloom- 
er costume  with  supercilious  contempt. 

But  its  vituperators  shook  her  opin- 
ion, by  a  very  simple  process,  —  they 
gave  their  reasons  !  !  !  ! 

"It  is  awkward" and  absurd,"  said 
one,  as  by  way  of  contrast  she  glided 
majestically  to  the  piano  to  sing :  as 
she  spoke  her  foot  went  through  her 
dress  to  the  surprise  of —  nobody. 

"It  is  highly  indelicate  to  expose 
any  portion  of  the  —  in  short  —  the, 
the,  the  —  ankle,"  continued  the  lady 
seating  herself. 

"  It  is !  Miss  Jemima,"  purred  a 
smooth,  deferential  gentleman,  look- 
ing over  her ;  his  eye  dwelt  compla- 
cently on  two  snowy  hemispheres. 

A  little  extravagance  injures  a  good 
cause. 

At  last  Miss  Courtenay,  fired  by 


opposition  and  unreasonable  reasons, 
began  to  favor  the  general  theory  of 
Bloomer. 

Next  she  converted  several  friends  ; 
still  to  the  theory  only.  This  got 
wind,  and  a  general  attack  was  made 
on  her  by  her  well-wishers.  Their 
arguments  and  sneers  completed  the 
business  ;  and  she  was  bloomerized  at 
heart,  when  the  following  scene  took 
place  in  her  own  kitchen. 

Eliza  the  cook  was  making  pastry 
on  the  long  oak  table ;  her  face  was 
redder  than  her  work  accounted  for. 

"  Well,  Eliza,"  said  Mrs.  Primmer, 
the  housekeeper,  "  your  tongue  won't 
stop  of  itself;  of  course  not ;  so  I  '11 
stop  it." 

"  Do, ma'am,"  suggested  Eliza,  with 
meek  incredulity. 

"  You  sha'  n't  wear  them  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Primmer. 

"  La',  ma'am,"  said  the  housemaid 
Angelina,  "  she  had  better  wear  them 
in  the  house  than  in  the  street  witli 
two  hundred  boys  at  her  heels." 

"  That  is  not  my  meaning,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Primmer.  "  I  hired  you 
for  a  female  cook,  and  the  moment 
you  put  on  —  things  that  don't  belong 
to  a  woman,  —  our  bargain  's  broke, 
and  you  go." 

"  Well,  it  is  an  indelicate  dress,"  ob- 
served Angelina :  then  turning  to  John 
Giles,  Eliza's  sweetheart,  who  was  eat- 
ing pork  at  the  dresser,  "don't  you 
think  so,  Mr.  Giles  ?  "  inquired  she, 
affectedly. 

"  I  does  ! "  said  Giles,  with  his 
mouth  full.  Giles  was  a  Briton  in  the 
suite  of  young  Seymour. 

"  Vulgar  !  "  suggested  Angelina. 

"  And  no  mistake,"  said  Giles,  — 
"  it 's  as  vulgar  as  be  blowed,"  added 
he,  clenching  the  nail  with  his  polished 
hammer. 

"  And  who  asked  your  opinion  1  " 
inquired  Eliza,  sharply. 

"  Angelina ! "  replied  Giles,  —  Giles 
was  matter-of-fact. 

Eliza.  "  I  mean  to  wear  it  for  as  vul- 
gar as  't  is." 

Giles.  "  Then  you  had  better  look 
out  for  another  man."  (Applause.) 


27G 


PROPRIA  QILE  MARIBUS. 


Eliza.  "  O,  they  are  always  to  be  had 
without  lookiny  out :  so  lonj;  as  there  's 
pickled  pork  in  the  kitchen,  they  '11 
look  in." 

Angelina.  "  Well,  I  think  a  woman 
should  dress  to  gratify  the  men  "  (with 
an  aillade  at  Giles)  :  "  not  to  imitate 
them." 

Eliza.  "  The  men  !  so  long  as  we 
sweep  the  streets  for  them  with  our 
skirts,  they  are  all  right.  You  talk  of 
delicacy  :  is  dirt  delicacy  ?  " 

On  this  she  whipped  off  a  chair  by 
the  fire  a  gown  that  had  met  with  a 
misfortune  :  it  had  been  out  walking 
on  a  wet  day.  Eliza  put  it  viciously 
under  Angelina's  nose,  who  recoiled. 
An  accurate  description  of  it  would 
soil  these  pages. 

"  Is  that  pretty  ?  "  continued  cook, 
"  to  carry  a  hundred-weight  of  muck 
wherever  yon  go  ?  " 

"  Dirt  can't  be  helped,"  retorted 
Primmer.  "  Indecency  can." 

"  Indecent  ?  "  cried  Eliza,  with  a 
face  like  scarlet.  "  Who  's  going  to  be 
indecent  in  this  kitchen  ?  " 

"  The  gals,"  suggested  Angelina, 
"  who  wear  —  who  wear  —  " 

"  Small-clothes,"  put  in  Giles. 

A  grateful  glance  repaid  him  for  ex- 
tricating the  fair  from  a  conventional 
difficulty. 

"  What,  it 's  indecent  because  it 
shows  your  instep,  I  suppose.  You 
go  into  the  drawing-room  this  evening, 
and  the  young  ladies  shall  show  you 
more  than  ever  a  Bloomer  will.  '  Wo- 
men's delicacy ' !  "  said  Eliza,  putting 
her  hand  under  the  paste  and  bringing 
it  down  on  the  reverse  with  a  whack! 
"  Gammon  !  Fashion  is  what  we  care 
for,  not  delicacy.  If  it  was  the  fash- 
ion to  tie  our  right  foot  to  our  left  ear, 
would  n't  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  said  Angelina,  with  her  lit- 
tle hesitation. 

"  Then  I  would  ! "  cried  Eliza,  sac- 
rificing herself  to  her  argument. 
"  What  did  they  wear  last  year,"  con- 
tinued this  orator.  "  Eh  1  answer  me 
that  whisking  to  and  fro  as  they 
walked  and  drawing  everybody's  atten- 
tion." 


In  speaking,  Eliza  was  worse  than 
I  am  in  writing,  she  never  punctuated 
at  all. 

"  So  you  mean  to  wear  them  ?  "  in- 
quired Mrs.  Primmer,  coming  back 
from  the  argument  to  the  point. 

Eliza.    "  Yes,  I  do  ! " 

Observe  !  at  the  beginning  of  the 
argument  she  had  no  such  intention. 

Mrs.  Primmer.  "  Then  I  give  you 
a  month's  warning,  here  (and  now), 
Eliza  Staunton  !  " 

Eliza.  "  And  I  won't  take  it  from 
you  Mrs.  Primmer." 

Mrs  Primmer.  "  Who  will  you  take 
it  from  then  ?  " 

Eliza.   "  The  mistress  or  nobody." 

Angelina.  "  La  !  Lisa !  You  know 
she  never  speaks  to  a  servant." 

Eliza.  "  She  speaks  to  Mrs.  Prim- 
mer, don't  slip  1  " 

Mrs.  Primmer.  "  Am  I  a  servant, 
hnssy  ?  Am  I  a  servaat  1 " 

Eliza.  "  Yes !  you  are  ;  we  are  all 
servants  here :  some  is  paid  for  doing 
the  work,  and  other  some  for  look- 
ing on  and  interrupting  it  here  and 
there." 

Mrs.  Primmer  (gasping).  "Leave 
the  kitchen,  young  woman." 

Eliza.  "  The  kitchen 's  mine  and 
the  housekeeper's  room  is  yours  old 
woman." 

"  Go  to  the  mistress  and  tell  her  I 
want  to  come  and  speak  to  her ! " 
gasped  the  insulted  housekeeper,  de- 
prived of  motion  by  her  fury. 

Angelina  took  but  one  step  before 
Eliza  caught  her,  Htld  the  roller  high 
above  her  head,  and  saying,  "  If  you 
offer  to  go  there  I  '11  roll  ye  up  into 
my  paste,"  pushed  her  down  into  a 
chair,  where  she  roared  and  blub- 
bered. 

"  O  you  rude,  brutal-behaved  wo- 
man," cried  Primmer,  "  I  shall 
faint." 

Helps  have  an  insolence  all  their 
own  :  they  say  the  most  cutting  things 
with  a  tone  of  extra  sweetness  and 
courtesy,  that  has  the  effect  of  fire 
quenched  with  sweet  oil,  or  brandy 
softened  with  oil  of  vitriol. 

With    such    sweet    and   measured 


PROPBIA   QILE   MARIBUS. 


277 


tones  Eliza  said,  half  under  her  breath : 
"  Giles  !  you  go  —  into  the  house- 
keeper's room  —  and  look  behind  the 
door  —  and  you'll  find  the  biggest 
brandy  bottle  you  ever  did  see :  Mrs. 
Primmer  wants  it !!!!!" 

This  dry  little  speech  was  harts- 
horn :  some  spring  seemed  to  have 
been  pressed,  so  erect  bounced  Mrs. 
Primmer ! 

She  bustled  up  to  Eliza,  and,  with 
a  spite  that  threatened  annihilation, 
gave  her  an  infinitesimal  pat  on  the 
back  of  her  head,  and  retired  precipi- 
tately with  a  face  in  which  misgiving 
already  took  the  place  of  fury. 

Eliza  put  down  the  roller  quite  lei- 
surely, and  cleaned  her  fingers  slowly 
of  the  dough. 

"  It  is  lucky  for  you,"  said  she,  firm- 
ly, "  that  you  are  the  same  age  as  my 
mother,  or  down  you  'd  go  on  those 
bricks.  Oh !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  "  and 
down  went  she  on  a  chair  opposite 
Angelina,  and  her  apron  over  her 
head :  for  these  women  who  are  go- 
ing to  tear  the  house  down  and  to 
stand  like  Mercury  on  the  debris  (in 
a  Bloomer),  with  a  finger  pointing  to 
truth  and  a  toe  to  futurity,  are  just 
two  shades  more  faint-hearted  at  bot- 
tom than  the  others. 

So  Eliza  and  Angelina  kept  up  the 
bawl  with  great  want  of  spirit,  burst- 
ing out  in  turns,  after  the  manner  of 
strophe  and  antistrophe,  — 

"  Et  ululare  pares  et  despondere  paratas." 

Meantime  the  manofoneideaatatime, 
Giles,  was  obeying  orders,  and  going 
after  the  bottle  specified  by  Eliza,  and 
had  his  hand  on  the  door  of  the  house- 
keeper's room. 

"  Giles  !  "  screamed  the  proprietor  ! 
He  stood  petrified.  "  There  is  110 
such  thing  in  my  room,"  said  she, 
with  sudden  calmness. 

Giles  returned  to  the  dresser. 

The  present  scene  had  lately  re- 
ceived an  addition  that  made  it  per- 
fect, —  a  satirical  spectator. 

The  pantry  window  which  looked 
into  the  kitchen  was  opened  by  a  foot- 
man, whose  head  had  been  previously 


seen  bobbing  wildly  up  and  down  as 
he  cleaned  his  .plate. 

This  footman  had  admired  Eliza, 
but,  outweighed  by  the  solid  virtues 
and  limbs  of  Giles,  was  furtively  look- 
ing out  for  a  chance  of  disturbing  the 
balance. 

Eliza  and  Angelina  were  now  sob- 
bing placidly. 

Mr.  Giles  stretched  his  legs  slowly 
out  before  him,  and  said  very  slowly, 
and  with  really  an  appearance  of  re- 
flection, "Now  all  this  here — bob- 
bery —  comes  from  a  woman  —  mak- 
ing up  her  mind  —  to  wear  —  the  — 
B—  ughahah  oh,  oh  !  Ugh  !  " 

Eliza  had  bounced  up  in  a  rage  and 
dabbed  the  paste  right  over  his  mouth, 
nose,  eyes,  face,  and  temples.  He 
should  have  spoken  quicker. 

It  was  nearly  his  death.  However, 
with  horrible  noises  and  distortions  he 
got  clear  of  it. 

The  footman  roared  with  laughter  : 
he  thought  he  never  had  seen  so  truly 
funny  a  thing  done  in  his  life,  —  none 
of  your  vulgar  jokes,  —  "  legitimate 
humor"  thought  John.  (Giles  being 
my  rival.)  Turning  suddenly  grave 
he  said :  — 

"  Well,  you  are  drawing  itmild,  you 
are,  —  here  's  the  mistress  coming  to 
see  who's  cat's  dead."  So  saying 
he  slammed  the  window,  and  his  head 
went  bobbing  again  over  his  spoons. 

At  this  announcement  histrionics 
commenced.  "  Mrs.  Primmer,  mad- 
am," began  Eliza,  demurely,  with  a 
total  change  of  manner,  "  I  'm  sure 
ma'am  you  would  n't  take  away  a 
poor  girl's  place  that 's  three  thousand 
miles  away  from  home  —  all  for  a 
word  ma'am ! " 

"  You  may  pack  up  your  box  Eliza 
for  you  won't  sleep  m  this  house," 
was.  the  grim  answer. 

"  O  Mrs.  Primmer,"  remonstrated 
Eliza,  tearfully,  "  if  you  have  no  heart 
for  poor  servants,  where  do  you  ex- 
pect to  go  to  ?  " 

"  I  shall  go  nowhere,"  replied  the 
dignitary,  "  I  shall  stay  here,  it 's  you 
that  shall  march."  Then,  hearing  a 
light  step  approach,  she  astonished 


278 


PROPRIA   QUJE  MARIBUS. 


them  all  by  suddenly  rising  into  a  wild, 
sonorous  recitative. 

"  I  have  my  mistress's  confidence, 
and  will  deserve  it." 

Miss  Courtenay  stood  on  the  thresh- 
old. 

Mrs.  Pritnmer's  game  was  not  to 
see  her.  She  intoned  a  little  louder. 

"  No  woman  shall  stay  a  day  in  this 
house." 

"  Well  I  never  !  "gasped  Angelina, 
looking  towards  the  door. 

"  Hold  your  tongue !  no  woman 
shall  stay  a  day  in  this  house,  who 
thinks  to  put  on  that  immoral,  ondel- 
icate,  ondecent  —  Ah  !  ah  !  ah  !  " 
Primmer  screamed,  put  her  nose  out 
straight  in  the  air,  put  on  her  specta- 
cles and  screamed  again. 

Miss  Courtenay  stood  at  the  door 
in  a  suit  of  "  propria  quae  maribus." 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Propria  quae  maribus  tribuuntur,  mascula 
dicaa." 

Eton  Latin  Grammar, 

THE  world  up  to  that  moment  had 
never  seen  so  smart  a  fella  *  as  caused 
Primmer's  recitative  to  die  in  a  qua- 
ver. ,£  }e  stood  on  the  threshold  erect 
yet  lithe ;  the  serpentine  lines  of  youth- 
ful female  beauty  veiled  yet  not  dis- 
guised in  vest  and  pantaloons  of  mar- 
vellous cut,  neat  little  collar  ;  dapper 
shoes,  and  gaiters  :  delicious  purple 
broadcloth. 

"  Giles  !  "  groaned  Mrs.  Primmer, 
"you  may  go  for  what  Eliza  said. 
Anybody  may  do  anything  now !  I 
nursed  her  on  these  knees,"  whined 
the  poor  woman,  with  the  piteous  tone 
that  always  accompanies  this  favorite 
statement. 

"  Primmer ! "  said  the  Courtenay, 
coldly,  "  theatrical  exhibitions  amuse, 
but  do  not  deceive  ;  be  yourself." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Primmer, 
coldly,  dropping  her  histrionics  direct- 
ly, and  taking  up  her  tact. 

"  Hearing  cries  of  distress  from  my 
*  Observe  the  female  termination. 


household,  I  came  to  see  if  I  could  bo 
of  any  sen-ice  to  you  :  what  is  the 
matter  ? " 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,"  put  in 
Eliza,  hastily,  "  it  is  all  along  of  Mrs. 
Primmer  being  so  hard  upon  the 
Bloomers,  ma'am." 

A  short  explanation  followed. 

Eliza  was  asked  why  she  had  de- 
fended this  costume. 

Eliza,  having  found  such  a  backer, 
was  fluent  in  defence  of  the  new  cos- 
tume. 

The  rest  looked  unutterable  things, 
but  could  say  nothing. 

In  the  middle  of  one  of  her  long 
sentences,  her  mistress  cut  her  short, 
congratulated  her  demurely  on  her 
sense,  informed  her  that  she  wished 
one  of  the  servants  to  assist  her  in  a 
little  scheme  for  recommending  the 
dress ;  that  she  should  have  hesitated 
to  propose  it,  but,  having  found  one 
already  so  disposed,  would  use  her 
services. 

"  On  my  bed  you  will  find  —  a  cos- 
tume :  put  it  on  immediately,  and 
come  to  me  for  further  instructions." 
So  saying,  she  vanished  with  a  slight 
smile. 

Eliza  watched  her  departing  form 
with  a  rueful  face.  She  discovered 
when  too  late  that  she  had  never  for 
a  moment  intended  to  wear  the  thing, 
and  had  only  defended  it  out  of  con- 
trariness ;  she  moved  towards  the  door 
like  a  lamb  to  sacrifice. 

"  Ahem  !  "  said  Mrs.  Primmer, 
"  you  can  go  into  the  street  dressed 
like  a  hobbadehoy  if  you  like,  Miss 
Staunton  ;  but,  if  I  might  ask  a  favor, 
it  is  that  you  won't  tell  the  people 
what  house  you  came  out  of:  because, 
you  see,  I  come  of  decent  people  in 
:he  neighborhood  that  might  feel  hurt 
and  leave  the  town,  owing  to  such  a 
thing  being  seen  come  out  of  the 
louse  where  I  am  ;  that 's  all,  ma'am ; 
and  I  am  a  regular  attendant  on  pub- 
ic and  family  worship." 
This  was  said  very  politely. 
"Well,  ma'am,"  answered  Eliza, 
Beginning  as  politely,  but  heating  so 
much  per  sentence.  "  I  don't  know 


PKOPRIA  QILE  MAKIBUS. 


279 


as  Bloomers  are  so  like  what  you 
mention,  ma'am,  as  your  own  gown 
would  be,  ma'am,  if  it  was  a  bit  clean- 
er, ma'am :  but  whenever  I  meet 
a  new-married  couple  coming  from 
church,  I  '11  step  up  to  the  bride,  and 
I  '11  say,  '  Mrs.  Primmer  requests 
you  would  be  so  good  as  not  to  put 
on  your  nightgown  before  supper 
next  time  —  she 's  turned  so  devilish 
modest  all  of  a  sudden.'  " 

So  saying,  Eliza  flounced  out  in  a 
rage,  and,  her  blood  being  put  up, 
burned  now  to  go  through  with.  it. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

REGINALD  SEYMOUR  was  a  hand- 
some, gentlemanly  fellow,  heir  appar- 
ent of  the  unsuccessful  bidder  for 
Courtenay  Court. 

He  had  been  for  six  months  the 
declared  lover  of  the  heiress  ;  and  his 
sister  Harriet,  warmly  invited  by  Miss 
Courtenay,  had  at  length  taken  ad- 
vantage of  an  escort  offered  by  an 
English  family,  and  was  a  guest  of  the 
Jiancee. 

If  Reginald  had  a  fault,  it  was  too 
strong  a  consciousness  of  the  antiqui- 
ty and  importance  of  the  Seymours  ; 
and,  as  that  was  combined  with  a  de- 
termination to  hand  down  their  name 
as  pure  as  they  had  received  it,  it  was 
a  very  excusable  weakness. 

He  was  perhaps  rather  more  formal 
and  stately  than  suited  his  youth. 

It  was  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening. 
Harriet  Seymour,  full  dressed,  came 
into  a  sort  of  antechamber  with  a 
bouquet  of  choice  flowers  in  her  hand, 
and  there  encountered  Caroline,  for 
whom  in  fact  she  was  looking.  At 
sight  of  her  friend,  Harriet  did  not 
at  first  comprehend  :  all  she  realized 
was  that  Caroline  was  not  the  thing. 

"  What !  not  dressed  yet,  Caro- 
line ?  "  said  she,  "  it  is  very  late." 

"  I  am  dressed,  dear." 

"  Why,  of  course,  I  see  you  have 
some  clothes  on  for  fun,  —  be,  he, — 
but  it  is  to  be  a  ball,  dear  !  " 


"  My  feet  will  be  as  unembarrassed 
as  yours,  dear ! "  replied  Caroline, 
quietly. 

Harriet  gave  her  the  bouquet,  and 
said  with  much  meaning  :  "  Reginald 
sends  you  these.  Of  course  you  did 
not  know  he  was  returned." 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  was  the  reply ; 
"  he  is  to  be  here." 

Harriet.  "  0,  Reginald  loves  you, 
Caroline." 

Caroline.     "  So  he  pretends." 

Harriet.  "  He  loves  you  with  all 
the  force  of  an  honest  heart, —  and  I 
love  you  for  his  sake  and  your  own  : 
give  me  the  privilege  of  a  sister  :  let 
me  advise  you." 

Caroline.     "  With  all  my  heart." 

Harriet.  "  Yes  !  but  advice  is  apt 
to  be  ill  received." 

Caroline.  "  That  is  because  it  is 
given  hastily  and  harshly ;  but  true 
friends  like  you  !  and  me,  —  O  fie  !  " 

Harriet.  "  Promise  then  not  to  bo 
angry  with  me." 

Caroline.  "  Certainly  ;  only  you 
must  promise  not  to  be  angry  if  I  am 
too  silly  or  self-willed  to  take  it." 

Harriet.  "  I  should  not  be  angry, 
love,  though  I  might  be  grieved  on 
your  own  account." 

Caroline.     "  Well,  then,  dear." 

Harriet.  "Well,  then,  dear, — do 
not  receive  society  in  this  costume. 
I  will  never  tell  Reginald ;  and  do 
not  you  let  him  know  you  ever  wore 
it"  ' 

Caroline.  "  But  how  can  I  help  it, 
when  he  is  going  to  see  me  in  it  ?  " 

Harriet.  "It  is  for  your  delicacy, 
your  feminine  qualities,  he  has  loved 
you." 

Caroline.  "Has he?"  (looking down.) 
"  Well,  those  qualities  reside  in  our 
souls,  not  our  —  habiliments." 

Harriet.  "  Not  in  such  habiliments 
as  those.  He  will  be  shocked." 

Caroline.  "  No,  only  surprised  a  lit- 
tle, he  !  he  !  " 

Harriet.  "  He  will  be  grieved,  Car- 
oline." 

Caroline.    "  I  shall  console  him." 

Harriet  (with  col  or  heightening).  "He 
will  be  indignant." 


280 


PROPRIA   QTLE  MABIBUS. 


Caroline  (with  color  rising).  "  I  shall 
laugh  at  him." 

Harriet.    "  He  will  be  disgusted." 

Caroline.  "  Ah,  —  then  I  shall  dis- 
miss him." 

Harriet.  "  I  see  I  speak  to  no  pur- 
pose, Miss  Courtenay. 

Caroline.  "  To  very  little,  Miss 
Seymour." 

Harriet.  "  I  shall  say  no  more,  mad- 
am." 

Caroline,  "  You  have  said  enough, 
madam." 

Harriet.  "  Since  you  despise  my 
advice,  please  yourself." 

Caroline.  "  I  shall  take  your  ad- 
vice at  present." 

Harriet.  "  But  you  will  never  be 
my  brother's  wife. 

Caroline.  "  Then  I  shall  altoays  be 
mistress  in  my  own  house." 

Harriet,  who  was  at  the  door,  re- 
turned as  if  to  speak,  but  she  was  too 
angry ;  gave  it  up,  and  retired  half 
choking. 

A  sacred  joy  filled  Caroline's  bo- 
som, —  she  had  had  the  last  word  ! 

As  she  was  about  to  pass  out  of  the 
room,  who  should  enter  hastily  but 
Reginald  Seymour  ?  —  her  back  was 
towards  him. 

He  called  to  her  :  "  Can  you  tell 
me  where  I  shall  find  Miss  Courte- 
nay, sir  ?  " 

Caroline  bit  her  lips,  but  she  turned 
sharply  round,  and  said  :  "  She  is  in 
this  room,  madam  !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Reginald.  He  add- 
ed, "  O  Caroline  !  ''  and  looked 
pained. 

Caroline  blushed,  and  if  heavenly 
looks  and  little  female  artifice  could 
have  softened  censure,  they  were  not 
wanting. 

"  What  beautiful  flowers  yon  have 
sent  me !  "  said  she.  "  See,"  I  threw 
away  my  formal  bouquet  for  your 
nosegay." 

"  You  do  me  honor,"  said  the 
young  gentleman,  uneasily. 

"Honor! — no!  but  justice;  a  sin- 
gle violet  from  you  deserves  to  be 
preferred  to  roses  and  camellias." 

"  Dear   Caroline !    I  withdraw,  — 


you  arc  not  dressed  yet,  aud  people 
will  soon  arrive." 

Caroline  saw  there  was  no  real  way 
of  escape,  so  with  great  external  calm- 
ness she  said  sweetly  :  — 

"  I  am  dressed,  dear  Reginald." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  as 
not  understanding  her. 

"  I  forgive  yon,"  said  the  sly  thing, 
taking  him  up,  "  there  are  so  many 
who  do  not  see  the  beaiity  of — ail 
this :  I  have  promised  to  wear  it  to- 
night," continued  she  (not  allow- 
ing him  to  get  in  a  word),  "and  to 
compare  it  calmly  and  candidly  with 
other  costumes;  you  will  be  so 
amused  ;  and  we  shall  arrive  at  a  real 
judgment  instead  of  violent  preju- 
|  dices,  which  you  are  above ;  at  least  I 
give  you  credit.  I  should  not  admire 
you  so  much  as  I  do  if  I  doubted 
that." 

"  Caroline  ! "  said  the  young  gen- 
tleman, gravely. 

"  Yes,  Reginald  !  " 

"  Dear  Caroline,  do  you  believe  I 
love  you  ?  " 

"  Better  than  I  deserve,  I  dare  say," 
said  Caroline. 

"  No  !  as  you  deserve.  I  will  not 
own  my  love  inferior  even  to  your 
merit.  Do  you  believe  that  when  we 
are  one  my  life  will  be  devoted  to  your 
happiness  ?  " 

"  I  am  sometimes  goose  enough  to 
hope  so,"  murmured  Caroline,  avert- 
ing her  head. 

"  Shall  you  think  ill  of  me  then,  if, 
before  marriage,  I  ask  a  favor,  per- 
haps a  sacrifice,  of  yon  ?  I  feel  I  shall 
not  be  ungrateful." 

"  There,"  thought  Caroline,  "  I  am 
not  to  wear  it,  — that  is  plain." 

Reginald  continued :  "  If  you  wear 
this  dress,  you  will  give  me  pain  be- 
yond any  pleasure  you  can  derive." 

"  Reginald,"  said  the  poor  girl,  "  I 
wish  to  wear  it,  —  now  and  then  ;  in- 
deed, I  had  set  my  heart  on  making  a 
few,  a  very  few  —  converts  to  it ;  see 
how  pretty  it  is,"  (no  answer) ;  "  but 
for 'your  sake,  when  I  take  it  off  to- 
night, I  will  give  it  away ;  and  it  shall 
never,  never  offend  any  more." 


PROPRIA  QtLE  MARIBUS. 


Reginald  kissed  her  hand. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Caroline,"  said  he,  stammering, 
"  you  do  not  quite  understand  me ; 
it  is  to-day  I  beg  you  on  no  account  to 
wear  it." 

"  0,  to-day,"  said  she,  hastily,  "I 
have  promised  to  wear  it." 

"  I  entreat  you,"  said  he ;  "  con- 
sider ;  if  you  once  show  yourself  to 
people  from  every  part  of  New  York 
in  this  costume,  what  more  remains 
to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Reginald  !  be  reasonable,"  said 
Caroline,  more  coldly.  "  I  stand  en- 
gaged to  sonic  sixty  persons  to  wear 
this  dress  to-night.  I  have  made  you 
a  concession,  and  with  pleasure,  he- 
cause  I  make  it  to  you.  It  is  your  turn 
now  :  you  must  think  of  me  as  well  as 
of  yourself,  dear  Reginald.  I  am  afraid 
you  must  shut  your  eyes  on  me  for  a 
few  hours  :  that  will  spoil  all  my  pleas- 
ure ;  or  you  must  fancy,  as  many  a 
lover  has  been  able  to  do,  that  I  con- 
secrate a  dress,  not  that  a  dress  has 
power  to  lower  me." 

"  0  Caroline,  do  you  value  my  re- 
spect ?  " 

"  Yes  !  and  therefore  I  shall  keep 
my  word,  and  so  you  will  feel  sure  I 
shall  keep  my  word  to  you  too,  if  ever 
I  promise  something  about "  (blushes 
and  smiles)  "Love  —  honor  —  and 
obey." 

A  battle  took  place  in  the  young 
man's  mind. 

He  took  several  strides  backwards 
and  forwards! 

At  last  he  burst  out :  "  There  are 
feelings  too  strong  to  be  conquered  by 
our  wishes. 

"  I  cannot  bear  that  my  wife  should 
do  what  three  fourths  of  her  sex  think 
indelicate.  We  never  differed  in  opin- 
ion before,  we  never  shall  again.  If 
we  do,  be  assured  I  will  bow  to  you. 
I  would  yield  here  if  I  could  :  but  I 
cannot.  'l  think  you  can ;  if  you  can, 
have  pity  on  me,  and  add  one  more 
claim  to  my  life — long  gratitude." 

The  balance  trembled :  the  tears 
were  in  Caroline's  eyes  ;  her  bosom 
fluttered  :  when  the  Demon  of  Discord 


inspired  her  proud  nature  with  this 
idea. 

"  He  loves  his  prejudices  better  than 
you,"  said  Discord ;  "  and  this  is  tyr- 
anny, —  coaxing  tyranny  if  you  will, 
but  still  tyranny." 

On  this  hint  spake  Caroline. 

"  I  find  I  have  rivals." 

"  Rivals  ?  " 

"  In  your  prejudices  !  Reginald,  nei- 
ther person  nor  thing  shall  ever  be  my 
rival.  Show  me  at  once  which  you 
love  with  the  deeper  affection,  Mr.  Sey- 
mour's prejudices,  or  Caroline  Courte- 
nay.  I  shall  wear  this  dress  to-night, 
—  only  for  a  few  hours,  —  consider ! 
you  will  be  here  and  keep  me  in  coun- 
tenance, —  or  you  don't  love  me." 

"  No  !  Caroline  !  "  said  Reginald, 
sadly  and  firmly.  "  I  have  spoken  ; 
our  future  life  now  rests  in  your  hands. 
I  shall  not  come,  —  I  shall  arrange  so 
that  if  you  degrade  yourself  (I  still 
cling  to  the  hope  you  will  not)  I  shall 
hear  of  it,  and  leave  the  country  that 
minute.  Were  I  to  see  it,  by  Heaven  I 
should  leave  the  world."  He  said  this 
in  great  heat,  but,  recovering  himself, 
said  :  "  Forgive  me  ! "  kissed  her  hand, 
and  went  despondently  away. 

Caroline,  on  his  departure,  wished 
he  had  gone  away  in  a  pet  instead  of 
sorrowful ;  wished  he  had  been  her^ 
husband  to  cut  the  matter  short  by" 
carrying  her  in  his  arms  and  securing 
her  in  his  dressing-room  till  the  ball 
was  over ;  wished  she  had  never  seen 
the  Bloomer  costume ;  wished  she 
could  hide  and  cry  in  an  attic  till  all 
was  over. 

On  her  meditations  entered  a  plump 
figure  with  all  manner  of  expressions 
chasing  one  another  over  her  counte- 
nance :  this  was  Eliza,  who  courtesied 
to  attract  attention,  and,  failing,  pre- 
sumed that  her  deportment  had  not 
corresponded  with  her  costume:  so 
bowed  instead,  and  ducked,  and  as  a 
last  resource  gave  a  pull  at  the  top  of 
her  head. 

Caroline.   "Well!" 

Eliza.  "If  you  please  ma'am, — 
but  if  you  please  ma'am  am  I  to  say 
ma'am  or  sir  now  ma'am  ?  " 


282 


PROFBIA  QtLE  MARIBUS. 


Caroline.  "  Madam  will  do  for  the 
present." 

Eliza.  "  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Kitty 
the  housemaid,  that  was  to  wear  the 
short-waisted  gown  before  the  compa- 
ny, says  she  won't  put  it  on  for  a 
double  dollar." 

Caroline.  "  Promise  her  four  dollars 
then." 

Eliza.   "  Yes-m." 

Caroline.  "  The  girl's  mother  would 
have  been  as  loath  to  wear  a  long 
•waist." 

Eliza.  "Yes-m." 

Caroline.  "  And  to-morrow  morning 
tell  Primmer  to  discharge  her." 

Eliza.  "  Yes-m  !  Oho,"  thought 
Eliza,  "  then  now  is  the  time  to  trim 
that  old  fagot  Primmer." 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  have  the 
greatest  respect  for  Mrs.  Primmer,  be- 
cause she  has  been  here  longer  than  I 
have,  and  is  a  good  servant,  ma'am, 
there  's  no  denying  it ;  •  but,  if  you 
please,  'm,  there's  no  putting  Mrs. 
Primmer  out  of  her  turnpike  road,  as 
the  saying  is.  She  says,  if  I  don't 
make  the  jellies  and  blamonge,  she  '11 
make  you  turn  me  off,  ma'am,  now 
how  can  I  when  I  've  got  to  learn  off 
all  those  words  you  gave  me  if  you 
please,  ma'am,  am  I  to  take  your  or- 
ders or  Mrs.  Primmer's-m  1 " 
•  Caroline.  "  Now  I  must  ask  you  a 
question,  —  who  are  you  1 " 

Eliza.  "  La,  ma'am  !  I  am  Eliza, 
mum  !  Cook,  mum  !  I  make  the 
Guava  jelly  that  you  like  so,  ma'am." 

Caroline.  "  Very  well !  then.  EKza 
Cook,  for  six  hours  you  are  my  lieu- 
tenant here,  and  queen  in  the  kitchen ; 
give  your  orders,  and  discharge  Prim- 
mer, and  every  man  and  woman  in 
the  house  that  disobeys  you,  and  I  '11 
confirm  all  you  do." 

Eliza.  "  Yes-m "  (with  flashing 
eyes). 

Caroline.  "  And,  if  you  abuse  your 
authority,  you  shall  be  the  first  vic- 
tim ! " 

Eliza.   "Yes-m"  (crestfallen). 

"  There,"  said  Eliza  to  herself,  as 
she  absconded  with  a  modest  rever- 
ence, "  I  've  been,  and  given  you  a  dig 


in  your  old  ribs  with  my  rolling-pin. 
Mrs.  Primmer." 

"  Until  to-day,"  thought  her  mis- 
tress, "  a  look  from  me  was  law,  and 
now  every  creature  high  and  low 
thwarts  and  opposes  me,  —  ever  since 
I  put  these  vile  things  on." 

Now  some  would  have  carried  the 
reasoning  out  thus  —  ergo  —  take 
these  vile  things  off! 

But  this  sweet  creature  never 
dreamed  of  that  path  of  inference. 

"  Of  this  there  can  be  but  one 
consequence,"  said  she,  "I  shall  do 
it  ten  times  the  more." 

She  then  burst  out  crying ;  which 
was  an  unfair  advantage  the  Bloomer 
took  over  poor  Reginald ;  for  after  a 
shower  of  tears  pretty  flowers  are  in- 
vigorated. 

Rat  a  tat !  tat  a  tat,  tat !  tat !  tat ! 
tat! 

The  guests  arrived.  "We  shall  only 
particularize  one  :  Mr.  Fitzpatrick,  an 
Irish  gentleman,  who  had  retained  the 
delightful  qualities  of  his  nation,  and 
rubbed  off  its  ignorance  and  down  its 
prejudices. 

Handsome,  gay,  and,  though  not 
varnished,  polished,  he  was  as  charm- 
ing a  companion  as  either  a  man  or 
woman  could  desire. 

Fitzpatrick's  flattery  was  agreeable 
to  the  ladies  ;  it  was  so  very  sincere, 
—  he  really  saw  en  beau  both  them 
and  all  their  ways. 

At  sight  of  Miss  Courtenay  in  a 
Bloomer,  he  was  ravished-. 

"  O  Miss  Caroline,  but  that 's  a  beau- 
tiful costoome  ye  've  invented  ;  the 
few  of  us  that 's  left  standing  will  fall 
to-night :  ye  've  no  conscience  at  all." 

"  I  did  not  invent  the  hideous 
thing  ;  it  is  Bloomer." 

"  Bloomer  1  ye  're  joking.  "What ! 
is  it  this  that  they  've  been  running 
down  ?  O  the  haythen  barbarians  !  ! ! ! 
Ye  were  a  rainbow  at  the  last  ball, 
but  now  ye  're  a  sunbeam,  —  ye  '11 
not  be  for  dancing  the  first  dance  with 
an  uncouth  Celt?" 

"  You  will  not  be  for  waiting  till 
the  seventh,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  ! " 


PROPRIA  QILE  MARIBUS. 


283 


"  Is  it  only  six  ye  're  engaged  ? 
O  but  I  'm  in  luck  to-night." 

Mr.  Fitzpatrick  had  been  for  some 
time  puzzled  which  he  loved  most,  — 
Harriet  Seymour  or  Caroline  Courte- 
nay ;  but  last  week  he  had  decided  in 
favor  of  the  latter,  without  prejudice 
to  the  former. 

The  dancing  was  kept  up  with  some 
spirit  for  two  hours  ;  and  then  Caro- 
line's associates  were  observed  to  steal 
out  and  to  make  for  various  apart- 
ments in  her  very  large  house  on  the 
doors  of  which  their  respective  names 
were  written  in  chalk. 

Results,  not  processes,  are  for  the 
public  eye. 

Suffice  it  to  say  at  present,  in  excuse 
of  Caroline's  obstinacy,  that  she  had 
been  at  no  small  trouble  and  expense 
to  carry  out  her  little  idea.  She  had 
also  read,  drawn,  composed,  and  writ- 
ten. Others  that  saw  the  work  had 
given  her  credit  for  some  talent,  great 
talent  of  course  they  said ;  and  she  was 
mortified  to  think  her  lover  would  not 
give  her  this  opportunity  of  showing 
him  her  wit,  on  which  she  secretly  val- 
ued herself  more  than  on  her  beauty. 

A  polka  concluded.  A  tide  of  ser- 
vants poured  in.  A  semicircle  of 
seats  sprang  up.  A  pulpit  rose  like 
an  exhalation,  and,  almost  before  her 
guests  could  seat  themselves,  Caro- 
line was  a  lecturer  wearing  over  her 
Bloomer  a  B.  C.  L.  gown  from  Ox- 
ford, and  the  four-cornered  cap  of  that 
University  on  her  head. 

L' Ejfrontee !  Of  whom  think  you 
she  had  borrowed  this  two  days  be- 
fore 1  Of  Reginald ! 

The  optimist  Fitzpatrick  was  en- 
chanted. 

She  was  more  beautiful  in  this  than 
even  in  a  Bloomer.  And  indeed  it 
became  her  ;  the  gravity  of  the  dress 
made  a  keen  contrast  with  her  arch- 
ness. She  was  like  a  vivid  flower 
springing  unexpectedly  from  some 
time-stained  wall,  —  dancing,  vanity, 
wit,  pique  at  Reginald,  and  the  flat- 
tery of  others,  made  her  cheek  flush, 
her  eyes  flash. 

"  Ahem ! "  said  she,  in  the  dry-as- 


dust  tone  of  a  lecturer.  "  Ladies  and 
gentlemen  :  as  you  will  have  to  bear 
with  many  costumes  this  evening, 
permit  me  to  begin  with  this  :  — 

"  I  wear  it,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  be- 
cause it  is  supposed  to  confer  a  right 
to  be  tedious,  ahem  ! 

"  I  am  here  to  attack  two  principal 
errors. 

"  One  is  that  such  fashions  as  em- 
barrass the  limbs  are  of  a  nature  to 
last  upon  earth. 

"  The  other  is  that  pantaloons  are 
essentially  masculine,  and  sweeping 
robes  feminine. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  women 
can  only  predict  the  Future  by  exam- 
ining the  Past,  —  moles  and  rabbits 
may  have  some  other  way,  though  I 
think  not.  Eliza, 

'  Call  back  past  facts  with  lessons  fraught 
To  teach  us,  —  if  we  can  be  taught.' " 

Eliza  opened  the  door. 

Miss  Spilman  the  musical  associate, 
splashed  a  magnificent  chord  on  the 
piano,  and  in  sailed  Queen  Elizabeth ! 
I  mean  a  lady  in  the  exact  costume  in 
which  that  queen  went  into  the  city 
to  return  thanks  for  the  destruction 
of  the  Spanish  Armada. 

Set  a  stomacher  three  feet  long  be- 
tween two  monstrous  jelly  bags,  upon 
a  bloated  bell,  and  there  you  have 
this  queen  and  her  successor  in  New 
York. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the 
lecturer. 

"  Common  sense  fell  flatter  than 
Spain,  the  day  Royalty  appeared 
thus ! 

"  Could  a  duck  make  a  doll,  this 
would  be  the  result. 

"  Yet  this  costume,  as  much  admired 
once  as  ours  is  now,  is  only  the  prin- 
ciple of  our  own  carried  a  step  fur- 
ther :  at  the  head  of  our  principle  is 
the  sack,  in  which  rustics  jump  at  a 
fair, — next  comes  Queen  Bess,  and 
then  come  we. 

"  With  us  motion  is  embarrassed. 

"With  Queen  Bess  motion  is  im- 
peded. 

"  With  the  sack  motion  is  obstructed. 


284 


PBOPRIA  QILE  MARIBUS. 


"  In  rational  and  therefore  perma- 
nent costumes  motion  is  free,  —  Vide 
Time  and  the  World." 


With  a  multiplicity  of  affectation 
in  came  a  courtier  the  point  of  whose 
shoes  touched  his  knees,  and  he 
seemed  proud  of  them. 

No  remark  was  made :  this  thing 
Bpoke  for  itself. 

Next  a  noise  was  heard,  and  with 
infinite  difficulty  a  lady  was  squeezed 
in  who  wore  the  genuine  hoop. 

Two  short-waisted  ladies  came  in. 

Everybody  laughed  at  the  sight  of 
them. 

Her  success  taking  this  form,  one  of 
them  burst  out  a  crying :  this  was 
Kitty,  who  was  instantly  attempted 
to  be  consoled  (as  the  papers  phrase 
it)  by  Mr.  Fitzpatrick;  he  told  her 
nothing  could  disguise  her  comeli- 
ness ;  and  really  thought  so  at  the 
moment. 

This  dress  set  people  talking;  those 
who  had  worn  it  confessed  to  the 
younger  ones  that  they  had  thought 
it  beautiful,  and  had  anticipated  the 
destruction  of  Nature  as  soon  as  the 
demise  of  this  phase  of  the  unnatural. 

Then  followed  jigot  sleeves. 

Two  chords  were  struck  on  the 
piano,  and  Miss  Courtenay  resumed 
her  lecture  thus  :  — 

KECITATIVE. 

"  All  these  good  people  when  they  were  here 
thought  they  must  be  here  forever. 

Or  as  long  as  men  and  women  and  Prim- 
rose Hill  and  the  Mississippi  River. 

But  they  proved  more  like  the  flower  than 
the  hill  that  bears  its  name. 

And,  instead  of  the  great  Mississippi,  they 
were  bubbles  floating  down  that  same." 

SONG. 

"  Such  fashions  are  like  poppies  spread  : 
You  seize  the  flower,  the  bloom  is  fled  : 
Or  like  a  snow-flake  on  a  river, 
A  moment  seen  then  gone  forever." 

"  We  have  shown  you  the  costumes 
that  could  not  stand  the  shock  of 
time  ;  you  shall  now  see  what  sort  of 
costumes  have  stood  the  brunt  of  cen- 


turies :  compare  the  Bloomers  with 
each  in  turn,  and  you  will  be  on  the 
path  of  truth." 

Armenian,  Polish,  and  Sicilian 
peasants  were  then  introduced,  whose 
limbs  were  free  enough,  goodness 
knows  :  they  ranged  themselves  in  a 
line  opposite  their  stiff  competitors, 
and  a  Bloomer  took  up  the  recitative. 

"  All  these,  unlike  the  Bloomer,  confine  the 
limbs  and  make  the  ribs  to  crack. 

All  those,  like  Bloomers,  free  the  mind,  the 
body,  and  the  back. 

So  bail  to  great  Amelia,  who  takes  a  sex  out 
of  a  sack." 

SOXG. 

"  For  grace  is  motion  unconfined, 
Like  rippling  sea  or  sweeping  wind, 
Free  as  the  waves  of  yellow  corn 
That  bows  to  greet  the  breezy  morn." 

The  applause  had  but  just  subsided, 
when  a  clear,  rich,  quaint  voice  arose, 
and  to  the  surprise  of  the  company 
trilled  forth  the  following  stanza  to 
some  fossil  tune,  —  Chevy  chase,  we 
really  believe. 

"  The  ass  with  four  legs  has  the  wit 
None  of  those  four  to  tether, 
But  there 's  a  greater  ass  with  two 
That  ties  those  two  together." 

While  the  others  sat  aghast  at  this 
stanza,  Fitzpatrick  was  gratified. 
"  Now  that  was  like  honey  dropping 
from  the  comb,"  observed  he. 

"  Now  you  know,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick,  it 
was  like  vinegar  distilling  from  a 
cruet,"  replied  Miss  Courtenay. 

"  There  was  an  agreeable  acidula- 
tion,  compared  with  yours,  Miss 
Courtenay,  but,  in  itself,  delicious  !  " 
retorted  the  optimist. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the 
modern  Portia,  "  the  first  head  of  my 
lecture  is  before  you.  I  am  now  to 
prove  that  pantaloons  are  not  neces- 
sarily masculine,  nor  long  skirts  femi- 
nine." 

On  this  entered  two  Persian  women 
in  gorgeous  costume  and  very  spa- 
cious trousers. 

They  salaamed  to  Caroline  and  the 
Bloomers,  but  seemed  staggered  by 


PiiOPRIA  QILE   MARIBUS. 


285 


the  other  figures.  Whilst  they  whis- 
pered and  eyed  the  company,  Caro- 
line lectured. 

"Ladies,  this  costume  is  worn  by 
half  the  well-dressed  women  in  the 
world ;  and  we  must  not  natter  our- 
selves we  are  more  feminine  than 
Mussulwomen.  On  the  contrary,  these 
pantalooncd  females  practise  a  reserve, 
compared  with  which  the  modesty  of 
Europe  is  masculine  impudence." 

A  Lady.  "  Make  them  speak.  I 
don't  think  they  are  women  at  all." 

Caroline.  "  They  are  women,  I  as- 
sure you,  Miss  White  ;  for  one  of  them 
lias  just  borrowed  a  pin  of  me." 

Miss  W.  "  Then  why  don't  they 
talk  ?  " 

Caroline.  "  He !  he  !  the  inference 
is  just.  They  are  going  to  speak  un- 
less they  have  forgotten  all  I  —  " 

Zuleima.  "  They  have  feet  and  even 
legs.  O  Holy  Prophet,  here  are  wo- 
men who  muffle  their  feet,  and  reveal 
their  necks  to  the  gaze  of  man." 

Fatima.  "  What  dirt  has  this  peo- 
ple eaten  1  Can  this  be  the  great 
Frank  nation  whose  ships  subdue  ev- 
ery sea,  and  whose  wisdom  and  prob- 
ity are  such  that  the  evil  spirit  him- 
self cannot  get  the  better  of  them  in 
making- bargains  1  are  these  sea-kings 
sprung  from  lunatics,  who  hide  their 
feet  which  were  made  for  show  and 
motion,  and  reveal  their  faces  and 
necks,  which  is  unlawful  ?  " 

Zuleima.  "  Daughter  of  the  Com- 
mander of  the  Faithful,  your  slave 
has  an  idea !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 

Fatima  (startled).  "Bismillah!  In 
the  name  of  the  Prophet,  let  me  hear 
it." 

Zuleima.  "  Three  revolutions  of  the 
moon  are  completed  since  we  sailed 
in  ships  from  Istanboul  :  in  the  mean 
time  Sheitan  has  doubtless  obtained 
permission  to  derange  this  people's 
intellects,  that  so  they  may  be  con- 
verted to  the  true  faith,  the  faith  of 
Islam.  Thus,  their  brains  being  con- 
founded, they  muffle  their  feet  and  re- 
veal their  necks  without  shame  to  the 
gaze  of  man.  Your  slave  has  spo- 
ken ! ! " 


Fatima.  "  It  is  well  spoken :  it  is 
also  a  nation  which  sups  on  opium, 
and  drinks  hot  wine  as  a  camel  sucks 
water  in  the  desert.  We  will  there- 
fore sit  on  ottomans  and  laugh." 

Zuleima.  "  Bechishm  !  on  my  eyes 
be  it." 

Fatima.   "  Seven  days." 
Zuleima.   "And  seven  nights." 
Fatima.   "  At  these  children." 
Zuleima.    "  Of  burnt  fathers." 
Fatima   and    Zuleima.   "  We    will 
laugh  — 

Seven  days 
And  seren  nights 
At  these  children 
Of  burnt  fathers  !  " 
They  then  sat  like  little  tailors  on 
two  ottomans  opposite  each  other,  and, 
nodding  like  mandarins,  laughed  me- 
chanically,  as    became    people    who 
were  going  to  make  seven  nights  of 
it. 

Caroline.  "Adsis,  O  Cato !  Call 
him,  Eliza." 

Eliza.   "  If  you  please,  'um,  would 
you  say  them  words  again." 
Caroline.   "Adsis,  O  Cato." 
Eliza.  "  Assist  us,  old  King  Cole !  " 
Cato  swept  in  with  a  magnificent 
toga. 

"  Adsum,"  said  he,  "  quis  me  vo- 
cat?" 

Caroline.  "Be  pleased,  sir,  to  tell 
us  which  are  the  most  masculine  and 
which  the  most  feminine  of  these 
souls." 

Cato  folded  his  arms  and  took  three 
antique  strides.  "  These  cackling 
creatures,"  said  he,  "  are  Persian  wo- 
men, this  "  (Eliza)  "is  a  native  I  be- 
lieve of  some  barbarous  country  not 
yet  under  the  dominion  of  Rome." 

Eliza.   "  Nor  don't  mean  to." 

Cato.  "  These  with  black  plaster 
stuck  to  them  are  of  the  genus  simii, 
or  apes.  The  rest  with  togae  but  no 
beards  are,  I  suppose,  of  the  Epicene 
gender,  —  dismiss  me." 

A  CHORD. 

Cato.  "  Abeo  "  (chord)  "  excedo  " 
(chord)  "  evado  "  (chord)  "  erumpo." 


286 


PROPRIA  QILE  MARIBUS. 


Four  strides,  one  for  each  verb,  took 
him  out  with  a  sharp  and  pleasing  ef- 
fect. 

This  ended  the  lecture ;  and  a  dance 
of  all  ages  and  climes  was  proposed. 

"I  can't  hop,  as  you  do  nowa- 
days," remonstrated  the  hoop.  "  I 
was  taught  to  dance." 

"  Grace  was  in  all  my  steps,"  said 
the  courtier. 

Said  Caroline:  "Dance  in  your  own 
way,  dress  in  your  own  way,  and  let 
your  neighbors  have  their  way  ;  that 
is  the  best  way  !  " 

A  dance  was  then  played  with  no 
very  marked  accent ;  and  mighty 
pleasant  it  was  to  see  couples  polk- 
ing, couples  gavotting  with  all  the 
superstition  of  antiquated  grace, — and 
waltzes  and  jigs  and  tarantula :  the 
sanctified  solemnity  with  which  polite 
people  frisk  was  for  this  once  ex- 
changed for  sly  gravity  and  little 
bursts  of  merriment  BOOM  ! 

A  gun  at  sea. 

The  great  steamer  was  starting  for 
England. 

It  was  a  brilliant  moonlight.  There 
was  a  general  move  to  the  supper- 
room,  which  had  four  windows  look- 
ing seaward. 

One  old  lady  lingered  a  moment  to 
convey  to  her  host  her  opinion  of  the 
lecture. 

"  You  are  a  very  clever  young  lady  ! 
your  lecture  was  very  ingenious." 

"  I  am  fortunate  in  your  friendly 
consideration  of  it,  madam,"  said  Car- 
oline. 

"  The  women  in  trousers  were  fun- 
ny !" 

"  If  it  gave  my  friends  a  smile,  Miss 
Kuth." 

"  It  will  make  Bloomers,  I  believe. 
It  was  as  good  as  a  play,  Miss  Courte- 
nay ;  and  I  shall  never  enter  your 
house  again,  madam  !  "  With  this 
conclusion,  Miss  Ruth  became  a  ver- 
tical rod  and  marched  off. 

The  next  moment  a  servant  brought 
Caroline  a  letter  ;  she  opened  it.  A 
smile  with  which  she  was  listening  to 
Fitzpatrick's  admiration  became  a 
stone  smile,  as  her  eyes  fixed  them- 


selves on  the  paper.  She  gave  a  cry 
like  one  wounded,  and,  stretching  out 
her  hands  with  a  tender  helplessness 
that  at  once  gave  the  lie  to  her  dress, 
she  sank  insensible  into  Mr.  Fitzpat- 
rick's  arms. 

The  steamboat  was  taking  Reginald 
past  her  window  to  England. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SEVERAL  months  after  this  event, 
a  young  gentleman  was  seated  in  a 
study,  book  in  hand,  but  by  no  effort 
could  he  give  his  mind  to  the  book  : 
he  sighed;  turned  the  leaves,  and 
gave  it  up  in  despair,  —  this  was  Regi- 
nald Seymour,  whose  offended  digni- 
ty and  delicacy  had  borne  him  stiffly 
up  for  five  months,  but  could  support 
him  no  longer. 

He  had  now  had  leisure  to  remem- 
ber the  many  high  qualities  of  her 
whose  one  fault  he  had  thought  un- 
pardonable. Ho  had  flung  away  a 
jewel  for  a  single  flaw  :  jewels  arc 
rare  :  he  began  to  think  he  had  been 
a  fool,  and  to  know  he  was  wretched. 

What  was  to  be  done?  he  had 
been  silent  so  long,  that  now  he  was 
ashamed  to  write,  and  when  he  had 
with  a  great  struggle  determined  to 
make  the  first  overtures,  a  letter  from 
his  sister  had  given  him  a  mysterious 
hint  that  it  would  now  be  too  late  to 
attempt  an  accommodation. 

Reginald  was  not  one  of  those  who 
babble  their  griefs,  and  cure  them- 
selves in  ten  days  by  tormenting  all 
their  friends. 

He  was  silent,  distracted,  reserved. 

His  own  family,  who  guessed  the 
cause  of  his  low  spirits,  respected  him 
too  much  to  approach  the  subject,  or 
to  let  strangers  into  the  secret. 

They  permitted  him  to  be  misera- 
ble in  peace. 

He  thanked  them  in  his  heart,  and 
availed  himself  to  the  full  of  their 
kind  permission. 

He  took  possession  of  a  room  whosa 
windows  looked  on  Courtenay  Court, 


PROPRIA  QUyE  MARIBUS. 


287 


and  in  that  room,  in  the  company  of 
the  immortal  dead,  —  il  s'ennuyail. 

One  of  these  painful  reveries  was 
interrupted  by  a  visitor,  an  old  gen- 
tleman in  black  gaiters  and  a  white 
head ;  it  was  the  Reverend  James 
Tremaine,  Perpetual  Curate  of  Cony- 
ton.  An  old  and  true  friend  of  both 
houses,  and  Reginald's  tutor  for  many 
years,  Mr.  Tremaine  had  not  seen  his 
depression  without  interest.  He  was 
acquainted  with  the  cause.  The  Sey- 
mours had  few  secrets  from  him. 
Certain  features  in  every  story  vary 
according  to  the  side  we  hear  it  from  ; 
and  Mr.  Tremaiue  secretly  congratu- 
lated Reginald  on  his  escape  from  a 
strong-minded  woman  ;  he  called,  not 
to  keep  his  pupil's  mind  fixed  on  the 
subject,  but  to  divert  him  from  it. 

After  noticing  with  regret  the 
young  man's  depression,  he  asked 
permission  to  be  his  physician. 

"  I  see,"  said  he,  "  what  it  is,  you 
want  some  fixed  intellectual  pursuit ; 
will  you  allow  me  to  recommend  you 
one  ? " 

"As  many  as  you  like,  dear  sir," 
said  Reginald,  "  for  I  am  wearied  of 
my  life.  I  have  nothing  to  do,"  add- 
ed he,  thinking  he  was  throwing  dust 
in  his  mentor's  eyes. 

Mr.  Tremaine  took  his  cue,  and 
then  and  there  proposed  to  his  late 
pupil's  attention  an  interesting  pur- 
suit, —  suited  to  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try, —  Geology.  "  It  is  a  science," 
said  he,  "  which  lifts  you  out  of  this 
ignorant  present,  and  transports  you 
into  various  stages  of  this  earth's  ex- 
istence ;  you  learn  on  its  threshold 
what  a  mushroom  in  this  world's  great 
story  is  the  author  of  the  Pyramids. 

"  You  find  that  the  earth  was  red- 
hot  for  millions  of  years,  and  spouted 
liquid  stone  like  a  whale,  —  in  that 
stone  look  for  no  signs  of  vegetation, 
and  still  fewer  of  life.  Then  for  mil- 
lions of  years  the  upper  crust  has  been 
cooling,  and  water  depositing  rubbish 
which  has  coagulated  into  stone  ;  and 
in  this  stratified  stone  you  shall  find 
things  that  lived  or  grew  very  late  in 
the  world's  history,  in  fact  within  a 


few  million  years  of  mammoths,  who 
preceded  man  by  a  few  thousand  years 
only ;  at  least  I  think  so,  since  the  flesh 
of  mammoths  has  been  found  in  ice  in 
our  own  day." 

The  old  gentleman  then  hinted, 
with  a  twinkle  of  the  eye,  that  this 
science  has  also  its  prose;  that,  by 
breaking  stones  with  iron  in  them, 
men  have  repaired  their  shattered  for- 
tunes ;  that  coal,  silver,  iron,  and 
even  gold  are  as  common  as  dirt, 
only  not  quite  so  superficial ;  and  that 
geology,  really  mastered,  would  teach 
its  proficient  the  signs  of  their  pres- 
ence, that  it  would  be  better  to  circu- 
late over  the  face  of  Devonshire  with 
hammer  and  book,  than  to  be  a  prey 
to.  weariness  without  the  excuse  of 
work. 

Mr.  Tremaine  had  not  observed 
what  we  have,  that  snobs  in  fustian 
jackets,  without  a  single  hard  word  to 
their  backs,  find  all  the  gold  and  all 
the  coal  that  is  found,  and  science 
finds  the  crustaceorii  dun  culce. 

As  for  botany,  Mr.  Tremaine  rec- 
ommended it  only  as  a  relaxation  of 
the  more  useful  study ;  at  the  same 
time  lie  hinted  it  was  amusing  to  be 
able  to  classify  plants,  not  by  their 
properties,  but  their  petals,  and  to  call 
everything  by  its  long  name  that  be- 
longs to  twenty  other  things  as  well, 
instead  of  knowing  each  by  a  peculiar 
title,  as  the  vulgar  unscientific  do. 

"  0,  le  plaisant  projet !  "  exclaims 
my  reader,  "  he  knows  the  boy  is  in 
love,  and  prescribes  geology  and  bot- 
any." 

Well,  is  not  one  folly  best  cured  by 
another  ?  But  is  this  sort  of  thing 
folly,  especially  in  a  youth  born  to 
fortune  ? 

Experience  is  our  only  safe  guide 
in  all  things,  —  and  experience  proves 
that  geology  and  botany  are  roads  to 
happiness. 

Other  things  are  constantly  tried  in 
vain,  —  these  seldom  fail. 

Ambition  is  raging  agitation  fol- 
lowed by  bitter  disappointment. 

Wit,  an  unruly  engine,  recoils  on 
him  that  plays  it. 


288 


PROPRIA  QtLE  MARIBUS. 


Politics,  love,  theology,  —  art,  are 
full  of  thorns  ;  but  when  you  see  a 
man  perched  like  a  crow  on  a  rock, 
chipping  it,  you  see  a  happy  dog. 
You  who  are  on  the  lookout  for 
beauty  find  irregular  features  or  lack- 
lustre dolls,  —  you  who  love  wit  are 
brained  with  puns  or  ill-nature,  the 
two  forms  of  wit  that  exist  out  of 
books  :  but  the  hammerist  can  jump 
out  of  his  gig  at  any  turn  of  the 
road  and  find  that  which  his  soul 
desires  ;  the  meanest  stone  a  boy 
throws  at  a  robin  is  millions  of  years 
older  than  the  Farnese  Hercules, 
and  has  a  history  and  a  sermon  to 
it. 

Stones  are  curious  things.  If  a 
man  is  paid  for  breaking  them  he  is 
wretched :  but  if  he  can  bring  his 
mind  to  do  it  gratis  he  is  at  the  sum- 
mit of  content. 

With  these  men  life  is  a  felicitous 
dream,  —  they  are  not  subject  to  low 
spirits  ;  they  smile  away  their  human 
day ;  and  when  they  are  to  die  they 
are  content.  Is  it  because  they  can 
take  anything  easy  by  giving  it  a  hard 
name  ?  is'the  grave  to  them  a  creta- 
ceous or  argillaceous  or  ferrugineous 
bed? 

No  !  It  is  because  their  hobbies 
have  been  innocent ;  and  other  men's 
hobbies  are  often  full  of  vice. 

They  have  broken  stones,  while 
egotists  have  been  breaking  human 
hearts. 

Mr.  Tremaine  was  enlarging  on 
such  topics  with  more  eloquence  and 
method  than  I,  when  his  patient  be- 
came animated  with  a  sudden  expres- 
sion of  surprise,  hope,  joy. 

He  looked  out  of  the  window. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  too. 
"  Ah "  cried  he,  "  I  see  !  Yes  ! 
Reginald  !  that  is  better  than  science 
and  beyond  the  power  of  art." 

"  Yes,"  said  Reginald. 

"  That  glorious  breadth  of  golden 
sunlight  that  streams  across  that 
foliage  "  continued  the  savant. 

"  Sunshine  and  leaves ! "  cried  Regi- 
nald "  it  is  something  of  more  impor- 
tance I  am  looking  at." 


"  More  importance  than  sunshine," 
said  the  old  gentleman,  faintly. 

"  Yes  !  sec  !  the  smoke  from  those 
chimneys  !  ! " 

Mr.  Tremaine  looked,  and  Courte- 
nay  Court  was  smoking  from  a  dozen 
chimneys  at  once.  He  was  taken  off 
his  guard. 

"  She  must  be  come  home,"  said 
he,  "  or  coming." 

Reginald  seized  him  by  the  hand. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.  TREMAINE  was  right,  Caro- 
line was  expected  at  Courtenay  Court. 
The  next  day  she  arrived,  bringing 
Miss  Seymour,  who  went  to  her  fa- 
ther's house. 

They  had  been  escorted  across  the 
water  by  Mr.  Fitzpatrick,  but  he  re- 
mained in  town.  Before  they  left 
New  York  this  gentleman  had  de- 
clared himself  Caroline's  professed 
admirer.  Caroline  asked  him  with 
some  archness  which  he  loved  best, 
her  or  Miss  Seymour.  The  question 
staggered  him  for  a  moment,  —  but 
he  said,  "  Can  you  ask  1  "  Cross- 
examined  however,  he  was  brought  to 
this,  that  he  liked  Caroline  a  shade 
better  than  Harriet. 

During  the  voyage  home  Mr. 
Fitzpatrick  lost  a  portion  of  his  gay- 
ety,  and  was  seen  at  times  to  be 
grave  and  perplexed,  —  novel  phe- 
nomenon. 

•  Harriet  Seymour  and  Caroline  had 
got  over  their  tiff,  and  indeed  Harriet 
for  months  past  had  sided  rather 
with  her  friend  than  her  brother. 
"  Caroline  was  wrong,"  said  she  ; 
"  but  Reginald  was  more  wrong.  He 
ought  to  have  forgiven  a  woman  a 
caprice."  Harriet  therefore  spent  the 
evening  of  her  arrival  at  home,  but 
early  next  morning  she  rode  over  to 
Courtenay  Court  to  bear  her  friend 
company.  She  was  the  more  eager 
to  lend  her  her  countenance  because 
others  were  so  hard  upon  her.  For 
the  evening  of  her  arrival  Carolina 


PROPRIA  QILE  MARIBUS. 


was  discussed  at  Seymour  Hall.  The 
old  people,  including  Mr.  Trcmaine, 
spoke  of  her  with  horror.  Tomboy, 
vixen,  and  even  strong-minded  wo- 
man, from  which  Heaven  defend 
males!  They  congratulated  them- 
selves and  Reginald  on  his  escape  from 
her.  Reginald  maintained  a  dogged 
silence.  But  when  Harriet  stoutly 
defended  his  late  sweetheart,  and 
declared  that  her  faults  were  only  on 
the  surface,  he  cast  a  look  of  gratitude 
at  her,  that  she  caught  and  compre- 
hended. Nor  was  her  defence  quite 
lost  on  others.  Mr.  Tremaine  asked 
her  quietly  :  "  Has  Miss  -Courtenay 
really  anything  good  about  her  ?  " 
"  Judge  for  yourself"  replied  Harriet, 
with  a  toss  of  the  head  ;  "  call  on 
her,  —  she  is  your  parishioner." 

"Humph!  I  don't  like  strong-mind- 
ed women ;  they  say  she  can  swim 
into  the  bargain  ;  but  I  certainly  will 
call  on  her." 

To  return,  Caroline  and  Harrietwere 
walking  in  the  grounds  of  Courtenay 
Court,  at  some  distance  from  the 
house  :  Harriet  was  lionizing  the  mis- 
tress, showing  her  her  beauties,  the 
famous  old  yew-tree,  the  narrow  but 
deep  water  that  meandered  through 
her  grounds,  and  each  admired  view 
and  nook.  It  was  charming ;  and 
both  ladies  did  loud  admiration,  and 
did  not  care  a  button  for  it  all. 

Harriet.  "  Is  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  com- 
ing to-day  ?  " 

Caroline.  "  I  don't  know.  What  a 
curious  bridge  !  It  looks  like  a  long 
gate,  —  shall  we  cross  it  ?  " 

Harriet.  "  Not  for  the  world,  —  the 
water  is  ever  so  deep." 

Caroline.  "  I  do  not  mean  cross  the 
water,  only  the  bridge." 

Harriet.  "  But  see  how  crazy  it  is  : 
the  wood  is  so  old.  Nobody  has  lived 
here  ever  so  long :  and  then  it  is  so 
hard  to  keep  on  it  too." 

Caroline  looked  wistfully  at  the  prim- 
itive bridge.  "  If  I  had  my  Bloomer 
on  I  would  soon  be  over  it,"  said 
she;  "but  this  appendage  would  catch 
my  feet  and  draggle  in  the  water  at 
every  step." 

13 


Harriet  implored  her  friend  never  to 
mention  that  word  again.  "  Bloomer ! 
It  is  the  cause  why  wo  arc  all  unhap- 
py." 

"  What,  are  you  unhappy  ?  What 
about  ?  O,  he  will  be  here  to-day, 
dear,  — ten  to  one." 

"  Who  ? " 

"  Mr.  Fitzpatrick !  " 

"  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  is  your  lover,  not 
mine,"  said  Harriet,  coloring  all  over. 

"  So  he  is  :  I  forgot !  0,  look  at 
the  tail  of  your  gown,  —  three  straws, 
two  sticks,  and  such  a  long  brier." 

Harriet.  "  Put  your  foot  on  it,  dear ! 
These  lawyers  are  the  plague  of  this 
county." 

Caroline.    "  Lawyers  ?  " 

Harriet.  "  I  forgot,  you  don't  know 
our  country  terms  :  we  call  these  long 
briers  lawyers,  because  when  once 
they  get  hold  of  you  —  " 

Caroline.  "  I  understand.  All  to 
be  avoided  by  a  little  Bloomer." 

Harriet.  "  Now,  Caroline,  don't !  I 
wish  the  woman  had  never  been  born  ! 
Let  us  go  into  the  shade." 

An  observer  of  the  sex  might  have 
noticed  the  same  languor  and  the 
same  restlessness  in  both  these  ladies, 
though  one  was  Yankee  and  one  Eng- 
lish. 

At  last  they  fell  into  silence.  It  was 
Caroline  who  broke  this  silence. 

"  Nobody  comes  to  welcome  me,  or 
even  sends.  How  hospitable  these 
British  are  !  If  I  had  quarrelled  with 
any  one  in  their  own  country,  and  then 
they  came  to  mine,  I  should  be  gen- 
erous :  I  should  make  that  an  excuse 
for  holding  out  the  hand,  and  being 
friends  any  way,  if  I  could  be  nothing 
more.  But  the  people  here  are  not 
of  my  mind.  All  the  worse  for  them. 
Much  I  care.  I  shall  go  and  see  where 
they  have  buried  my  father  (I  don't 
believe  he  would  have  died  if  lie  had 
not  come  here),  and  then  I  shall  go 
back  home  across  the  water  to  my 
country,  where  men  know  how  to 
quarrel,  ay,  and  nght  too,  and  then 
drop  it  when  it  is  done  with." 

Thus  spake  the  Yankee  girl.  Tho 
English  girl  colored  up  :  but  she  did 


290 


FROPKIA  QILE  MARIBUS. 


not  answer  back,  except  by  turning 
brimming  eyes  and  a  look  of  gentle 
reproach  on  her. 

On  this,  partly  because  she  was  un- 
happy, partly  because  this  mild  look 
pricked  her  great  though  wayward 
heart,  the  Yankee  girl  began  to  cry 
bitterly. 

On  this,  the  English  girl  flung  her 
arms  round  the  Yankee  girl's  neck, 
and  cried  with  her. 

"  Dearest,  he  loves  you  still." 

"  Still,  —  he  never  loved  me,  Har- 
riet !  O  no,  he  never  loved  me  !  Oh ! 
oh!" 

"  You  forget,  —  I  have  been  home 
—  I  have  seen  him.  He  is  pale  —  he 
is  sad." 

"  That  is  a  c-c-comfort,  —  I  w-w- 
wish  he  was' at  d-d-death's  door  !  " 

"  He  is  far  more  unhappy  than  you 
are." 

"  I  am  so  glad,   I  don't  believe  it." 

"  You  may  believe  it  I  have  seen 
it." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  was  seen 
approaching :  he  came  up,  touched  his 
hand  to  Caroline  with  a  world  of  ob- 
sequiousness, and  informed  her  the 
parson  had  called  to  see  her  and  was 
in  the  drawing-room. 

"  The  parson  ?  " 

"  The  Reverend  Mr.  Tremaine, 
miss." 

"  A  great  friend  of  our  family,"  ex- 
plained Harriet. 

"  Ah,  tell  me  all  about  him  as  we 
go  along." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Mr.  Tremaine.  "  Will  she  receive 
me  in  a  Bloomer  1 " 

Harriet.  "  I  don't  know.  I  hope 
not.  She  was  decent  a  minute  ago." 

Tremaine.  "Perhaps  she  has  gone 
to  put  one  on." 

Harriet  gave  a  start,  and  had  a  mis- 
giving, Caroline  being  a  devil.  "Heav- 
en forbid,"  she  cried,  "  I  will  go  and 
see." 

The  next  minute  a  young  lady  of 


singular  beauty  and  grace  glided  into 
the  roomi  She  was  dressed  richly,  but 
very  plainly.  Mr.  Tremaine  looked 
at  her  with  surprise.  "  Are  you  Miss 
Courtenay  ?  " 

She  smiled  sweetly  and  told  him 
she  was  Miss  Courtenay.  She  added 
that  Mr.  Tremaine  was  no  stranger 
to  her,  —  she  had  often  heard  of  him 
and  his  virtues,  in  happier  days. 
After  that  she  thanked  him  for  being 
the  first  to  welcome  her  home. 

"  We  shall  all  feel  flattered  at  your 
calling  it  home,  Miss  Coartenaj  :  we 
must  try  and  keep  you  here  after 
that." 

In  about  ten  minutes  the  intslligsnt 

Smng  beauty  had  not  only  dissolved 
r.  Tremaine's  prejudices  against  her, 
but  had  substituted  a  tolerably  strong 
prejudice  in  her  favor. 

"  This  quiet,  lady-like,  dignified, 
gentle,  amiable,  beautiful  young  wo- 
man a  tomboy  1  "  said  he  to  himself. 
"  I  don'c  believe  it.  It  surpasses  be- 
lief :  it  is  false." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  Miss  Courtenay,"  began  the  old 
gentleman,  "your  late  father  during 
the  short  time  he  was  among  us  gained 
the  respect  of  the  whole  country.  I 
cannot  help  thinking  you  will  be  his 
successor  in  our  esteem  as  well  as  in 
Courtenay  Court." 

Miss  Courtenay  bowed  with  quiet 
dignity. 

"  The  worst  of  it  is,  we  are  an 
old-fashioned  people  here  in  Devon- 
shire. We  are  strait-laced,  perhaps  too 
strait-laced  —  ahem  !  in  short,  shall  I 
be  presuming  too  far  on  our  short  ac- 
quaintance if  (pray  give  me  credit 
for  friendly  motives)  I  ask  permission 
to  put  you  a  question  1  But  no,  — 
when  I  look  at  vou,  —  it  is  impossi- 
ble." 

"  What  is  impossible,  sir  ?  " 

"  That  you  can  ever  have  —  by  the 
by,  they  say  you  can  swim,  Miss 
Courtenay  "  ;  and  the  old  gentleman 
colored  a  !>it. 

"  A  little,  not  worth  boasting  of," 
replied  Caro'in?,  modestly.  "I  think 


PROPKIA-  QU.E  MAKIBUS. 


291 


I  could  make  shift  to  swim  across  this 
room,  if  the  sea  was  in  it." 

"  0,  no  farther  than  that  ?  well, 
there  is  not  much  harm  in  that.  But 
they  do  say  you  have  done  us  the 
honor,  ahem,  to  wear  male  habili- 
ments. Is  that  true  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Tremaine,  I  have. 
Let  —  me  —  see  !  I  think  it  was  at  a 
fancy  ball;  in  my  own  house ;  at 
New  York."  The  words  were  said 
with  assumed  carelessness  and  candor. 

"  What,  on  no  other  occasion  ?  " 
"  On    no   other    public    occasion. 
Why  ?  " 

"  Then  really  I  think  too  much  has 
been  made  of  it.  But  you  are  said  to 
advocate  the  Bloomer  costume." 

"  I  have  often  advocated  it  in  words, 
sir,  but  wearing  it  is  a  different  matter, 
you  know." 

"  Very  different,  very  different  in- 
deed," said  Tremaine,  nastily. 

"  I  could  not  help  advocating  it, 
its  adversaries  argued  so  weakly 
against  it.  Shall  I  repeat  their  argu- 
ments, and  my  own  ? " 

"  If  you  please." 

Caroline  then,  with  the  calm  indif- 
ference of  a  judge,  stated  the  usual 
arguments  pro  and  con,  and  did  not 
fail  to  dwell  upon  the  trousers  of 
Eastern  women.  Mr.  Tremaine  took 
her  up :  "  There  is  a  flaw  in  your  rea- 
soning, I  think,"  said  he.  •'  Those 
Eastern  women  distinguish  themselves 
from  men  by  a  thick  veil.  They  all 
wear  a  thick  veil. 

"  It  appears  to  me  that  the  true  ar- 
gument against  Bloomer  has  never 
been  laid  before  you.  It  is  this.  In 
every  civilized  nation  the  entire  sex  is 
distinguished  by  some  marked  cos- 
tume. But  Bloomer  proposes  that 
one  third  of  the  women  should  be  at 
variance  with  the  other  two  thirds." 

"  O  no,  sir,  she  is  for  dressing  them 
all  in  Bloomer." 

"  No.  Excuse  me  :  how  would  old 
women  and  fat  women  look  in  a 
Bloomer  ?  how  would  young  matrons 
look  at  that  period  when  a  woman  is 
most  a  woman  1  No ;  the  dress  of 
women  must  clearly  be  some  dress 


i  that  becomes  all  women,  at  all  times 
and  occasions  of  life.  There  are 
plenty  of  boys  of  sixteen  or  seventeen, 
who  could  be  dressed  as  women  and 
eclipse  all  the  women  in  a  ball-room  : 
but  it  would  be  indelicate  and  .unman- 
ly ;  you,  with  your  youthful  symmet- 
rical figure,  could  eclipse  most  young 
men  in  their  own  habiliments  :  but  it 
would  be  indelicate  and  unwomanly. 
Forgive  me,  —  I  distress  you." 

"  No,  sir,  but  you  convince  me,  and 
that  is  new  to  me.  I  admit  this  argu- 
ment at  once,  and  so  I  would  have  done 
six  months  ago ;  but  no  one  had  the 
intelligence  to  put  the  matter  to  me 
so,"  said  the  sly  thing. 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  very  reasonable 
young  lady." 

'•  I  try  to  be  :  it  is  the  only  merit  I 
have." 

"  There  I  must  contradict  you 
again,  and  stoutly.  Well,  then,  since 
the  Bloomer  difficulty  is  despatched, 
let  me  have  the  honor  and  happiness 
of  reconciling  an  honorable  young 
man  to  the  most  charming  young 
lady  I  have  met  with  this  many  a  day." 

The  charming  young  lady  froze 
directly. 

"  I  will  not  affect  to  misunderstand 

Su,  sir.  But  the  difference  between 
r.  Seymour  and  myself  lies  deeper 
than  this  paltry  dress,  —  lies  too  deep 
for  you  to  cure.  The  Bloomer  was  a 
mere  pretext.  Mr.  Seymour  did  not 
love  me." 

"  Excuse  me.     I  know  better." 

"  When  we  love  people,  we  forgive 
their  faults.  We  forgive  their  virtues 
even." 

Mr.  Tremaine  looked  at  her  with 
some  surprise  !  The  Devonshire  ladies 
had  not  tongues  so  pointed  as  the  fair 
Yankees. 

"  He  did  love  you ;  he  does  love 
you ! " 

"  No,  Mr.  Tremaine !  no  !  Was 
that  a  fault  for  any  one,  who  really 
loved  me,  to  quarrel  out  and  out  with 
a  spoiled  child  for  1  "  Here  two  tears, 
the  one  real,  the  other  crocodile,  ran 
down  her  lovely  cheeks  and  did  the 
poor  old  gentleman's  business  entirely. 


292 


PROPKIA  QU.E  MAEIBUS. 


"He  deserves  to  be  hanged,"  cried 
he,  jumping  up  in  great  heat.  "  Young 
fool !  but  he  does  love  you,  tenderly, 
sincerely  !  He  has  never  been  happy 
since.  He  never  will  be  happy,  till 
you  are  reconciled  to  him.  He  is  wait- 
ing in  great  anxiety  for  my  return. 
I  shall  tell  him  to  ride  over  here, 
and  just  go  down  —  on  —  his  —  knees  j 
to  you  and  ask  your  forgiveness.  If 
he  does,  will  you  forgive  him  ?  " 

"  I  will  try,  sir,"  said  Caroline, 
doubtfully ;  "  but  he  owes  much  to  his 
advocate,  and  so  yon  must  tell  him." 

"  I  shall  be  Vain  enough  to  tell  him 
so,  you  may  depend " ;  and  away 
went  Mr.  Tremaine,  Caroline's  devot- 
ed champion  through  thick  and  thin 
from  this  hour.  As  he  rode  away, 
zeal  and  benevolence  shining  through 
him,  Caroline  said  dryly  to  herself: 
"  I  am  your  friend  for  life,  old  boy." 
Harriet  came  in  and  heard  the  news. 
She  was  delighted.  Reginald  will  be 
here  as  fast  as  his  horse's  feet  can 
carry  him.  Mr.  Tremaine  is  all-pow- 
erful in  our  house. 

"  So  I  concluded  from  what  you 
told  me,"  said  Caroline,  demurely, 
"  and  I  —  hem  —  will  you  excuse  me 
for  half  an  hour  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  you  will  find  me  on  the 
lawn." 

Full  three  quarters  of  an  hour  had 
elapsed,  and  Harriet  was  beginning 
to. wonder  what  had  become  of  her 
friend,  when  a  musical  laugh  rang  be- 
hind her.  She  turned  round  and  be- 
held a  sight  that  made  her  scream 
with  terror  and  dismay,  —  there  stood 
Caroline  in  propria  quae  maribus,  as 
bold  as  brass. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE  face  of  uneasy  defiance  Caro- 
line got  up,  when  Harriet  faced  her, 
was  truly  delicious.  "  It  is  all  over," 
gasped  Harriet,  "  you  are  incurable." 

"  He  loves  me,"  explained  Caro- 
line. "  When  I  felt  like  giving  in,  I 
did  n't  think  he  loved  me." 


Harriet  made  no  reply.  She  marched 
off  stiffly.  The  Bloomer  followed, 
and  tried  to  appease  her  by  reminding 
her  how  hard  it  was  to  give  in  as  long 
as  a  chance  of  victory  remained. 
"  Hard  ?  it  is  impossible,  —  it  hurts  ! " 
No  answer. 

"It  was  all  that  dear  old  man's 
fault,  for  letting  out  that  he  loves  me 
still,  and  is  unhappy  :  so  then  he  is 
in  my  power,  and  I  can't  give  in  now  ; 
and  I  won't.  No  !  let  us  see  whether 
it  is  me  or  my  clothes  he  loves.  Ah  ! 
ah.  0  my  dear  girl,  here  he  comes  ! 
let  me  get  behind  you.  O  dear,  I  wish 
I  had  n't ! " 

Sure  enough  Reginald  was  coming 
down  to  the  other  side  of  the  stream. 

Caroline  got  half  behind  Harriet. 

Reginald  came  along  the  bridge  to 
join  them. 

"  I  wish  it  would  break  down,"  said 
Caroline,  "  and  then  I  'd  run  home, 
and  I  know  what  I  would  do." 

The  words  were  out  of  her  mouth 
and  no  more,  when  some  portion  of 
the  rotten  wood  gave  way,  and  splash 
went  Reginald  into  the  water.  Har- 
riet screamed.  Caroline  laughed ;  but 
her  laughter  was  soon  turned  to  dis- 
may. Reginald  sank.  He  came  up 
and  struggled  towards  the  wood- work, 
but  in  vain  :  the  current  had  carric-d 
him  a  yard  or  two  from  it,  and  even 
that  small  space  he  could  not  recover. 
He  was  too  proud  to  cry  for  help,  but 
lie  was  drowning. 

"He  can't  swim,"  cried  Caroline, 
and  she  dashed  into  the  stream  like  a 
water-spaniel :  in  two  strokes  she  was 
beside  him  and  seized  him  by  the 
hair.  One  stroke  took  her  to  the  rem- 
nant of  the  bridge ;  "  Lay  hold  of 
that, Reginald, "she cried  ;  he  obeyed, 
and  while  she  swam  ashore  he  worked 
along  the  wooden  bridge  to  the  bank. 
The  moment  she  saw  him  safe  she  be- 
gan to  laugh  again,  and  then  what 
does  my  lady  do  but  sets  off  running 
home  full  pelt  before  he  could  s:iy  a 
word  to  her?  He  followed  her,  crying, 
"  Caroline,  Caroline  !  "  It  was  no 
use,  she  was  in  her  Bloomer,  and  ran 
like  a  doe. 


PEOPRIA  QILE  MARIBUS. 


293 


"  O  Reginald,  go  home  and  change 
your  clothes,"  cried  the  tender  Har- 
riet. 

"  What,  go'  home,  hefore  I  have 
thanked  my  guardian  angel,  —  my 
beloved  ?  " 

"  Your  guardian  angel  must  change 
her  clothes  (they  are  spoiled  forever 
now,  that  is  one  comfort),  and  you 
must  change  yours,  —  you  will  catch 
your  death." 

"  At  least  tell  her  she  shall  wear 
what  she  pleases  — tell  her  —  " 

"  I  will  tell  her  nothing  ;  come  and 
tell  it  her  yourself  in  dry  clothes  ; 
frightening  me  so  !  " 

Reginald  ran  to  the  stables,  got  his 
horse,  galloped  home ;  dressed  him- 
self and  galloped  back,  and  came 
into  Caroline's  drawing-room,  open- 
mouthed:  "  Wear  what  you  like,  dear 
Caroline ;  why,  where  is  the  Bloomer 
gone  ?  you  're  in  a  gown  !  No  mat- 
ter —  forgive  me  —  O  forgive  me  —  I 
have  been  ungrateful  once  —  I  never 
will  again,  my  beloved  —  what,  did  I 
not  owe  you  enough  before,  that  you 
must  save  my  life  ?  0  Caroline  !  one 
word !  can  the  devotion  of  a  life  re- 
store me  the  treasure  I  once  had  and 
trifled  with  ?  "  Then  he  fell  to  kiss- 
ing her  hands  and  her  gown. 

Then  she,  seeing  him  quite  over- 
come, turned  all  woman. 

"  Reginald,"  she  murmured,  and 
sank  upon  his  neck,  all  her  archness 
dissolving  for  one  sacred  moment  in 
tears  and  love. 

"  What  did  you  say  about  Bloom- 
er, Reginald,  dear?  " 

"  I  said  you  should  wear  whatever 
you  liked,  sweet  one." 

"  O,  then  we  are  never  to  agree ;  for 
I  mean  to  wear  whatever  you  like." 

This  was  "the  way  to  take  her," 
one  of  that  sort. 

They  are  to  be  made  slaves  of  just 
as  easily  as  the  hen-hearted  ones. 
But  ye  must  not  show  them  the  chain. 

Mr.  Fitzpatrick  came  in  the  after- 
noon. 

Caroline.  "  Mr.  Fitzpatrick,  will 
you  come  here  1 " 


Fitzpatrick.  "I  will."  N.  B.  An 
Irishman  always  consents,  and  never 
says  "  Yes." 

Caroline  (with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye). 
"  Will  you  do  me  a  favor  ?  " 

Fits.    "  I  will." 

Carol.  "  Do  you  see  that  lady  sit- 
ting there  f  "  (Harriet.) 

Fitz.    "  I  do"  (coloring). 

Carol.  "  Go  and  marry  her."  And 
she  gave  him  a  push  that  seemed  less 
than  a  feather,  but  somehow  it  pro- 
pelled Fitz  all  across  the  room  and 
sent  him  down  on  his  knees  before 
Harriet.  There  were  only  these  three 
in  the  room. 

Mr.  Tremaine  married  two  couples 
in  one  day :  Reginald  and  Caroline, 
Fitzpatrick  and  Harriet.  I  ought  to 
explain  to  those  who  have  not  seen  it 
that  during  the  voyage  Fitz  had  dis- 
covered it  was  Harriet  he  loved  a  shade 
the  best  of  the  two. 

At  the  wedding  breakfast,  arrayed 
in  white  and  adorned  with  wreaths, 
both  the  Yankee  and  the  English  beau- 
ty, were  intolerably  lovely.  No  one 
seemed  more  conscious  of  this  double 
fact  than  Fitz.  Caroline  observed  his 
looks  and  said  to  him  confidentially : 
"  Would  n't  you  like  to  have  married 
both  ladies  now  ?  tell  the  truth  ! ! !  !  " 

"  Indeed  and  I  would,"  replied  the 
candid  Celt,  unconscious  of  any  satire 
in  the  question. 

America  takes  two  hundred  thou- 
sand English  every  year  :  we  have  got 
this  one  Yankee  in  return,  and  we 
mean  to  keep  her. 

A  year  after  they  had  been  married, 
she  wanted  to  give  her  Bloomer  to  one 
of  the  stable  boys. 

"  What,  the  dress  you  saved  my  life 
in  ? "  cried  Reginald.  "  I  would  not 
part  with  it  to  a  prince  for  the  price 
of  a  king's  ransom." 

Lads  and  lasses,  this  story  is  what  I 
have  called  it,  a  jeu  cTesprit :  written 
for  your  amusement,  and  intended  not 
to  improve  you,  instruct  you,  or  ele- 
vate your  morals.  Receive  it  so  ! 
and,  when  next  we  meet,  majora  ca- 
namus  ! 


THE   BOX  TUNNEL. 


A   FACT. 


THE   BOX   TUNNEL. 


THE  10.15  train  glided  from  Pad- 
dington,  May  7,  1847.  In  the  left 
compartment  of  a  certain  first-class 
carriage  were  four  passengers;  of  these, 
two  were  worth  description.  The  lady 
had  a  smooth,  white,  delicate  brow, 
strongly  marked  eyebrows,  long  lash- 
es, eyes  that  seemed  to  change  color, 
and  a  good-sized  delicious  mouth,  with 
teeth  as  white  as  milk.  A  man  could 
not  see  her  nose  for  her  eyes  and 
mouth,  her  own  sex  could  and  would 
have  told  us  some  nonsense  about  it. 
She  wore  an  unpretending  grayish 
dress,  buttoned  to  the  throat,  with  loz- 
enge-shaped buttons,  and  a  Scotch 
shawl  that  agreeably  evaded  the  re- 
sponsibility of  color.  She  was  like  a 
duck,  so  tight  her  plain  feathers  fit- 
ted her ;  and  there  she  sat,  smooth, 
snug,  and  delicious,  with  a  book  in 
her  hand  and  a  soupqon  of  her  snowy 
wrist  just  visible  as  she  held  it.  Her 
opposite  neighbor  was  what  I  call  a 
good  style  of  man,  —  the  more  to  his 
credit,  since  he  belonged  to  a  corpora- 
tion that  frequently  turns  out  the  worst 
imaginable  style  of  young  man.  He 
•was  a  cavalry  officer  aged  twenty-five. 
He  had  a  mustache,  but  not  a  repul- 
sive one ;  not  one  of  those  sub-nasal 
pig-tails,  on  which  soup  is  suspended 
like  dew  on  a  shrub  ;  it  was  short, 
thick,  and  black  as  a  coal.  His  teeth 
had  not  yet  been  turned  by  tobacco 
smoke  to  the  color  of  tobacco  juice,  his 
clothes  did  not  stick  to  nor  hang  on 
him,  they  sat  on  him  ;  he  had  an  engag- 
ing smile,  and,  what  I  liked  the  dog  for, 
his  vanity,  which  was  inordinate,  was 
in  its  proper  place  his  heart,  not  in  his 
13* 


face,  jostling  mine  and  other  people's, 
who  have  none  :  —  in  a  word,  he  was 
what  one  oftener  hears  of  than  meets, 
a  young  gentleman.  He  was  conversing 
in  an  animated  whisper  with  a  com- 
panion, a  fellow-officer,  —  they  were 
talking  about,  what  it  is  far  better  not 
to  do,  women.  Our  friend  clearly  did 
not  wish  to  be  overheard,  for  he  cast, 
ever  and  anon,  a  furtive  glance  at  his 
fair  vis-a-vis  and  lowered  his  voice.  She 
seemed  completely  absorbed  in  her 
book,  and  that  reassured  him.  At  last 
the  two  soldiers  came  down  to  a  whis- 
per, and  in  that  whisper  (the  truth 
must  be  told)  the  one  who  got  down 
at  Slough,  and  was  lost  to  posterity, 
bet  ten  pounds  to  three,  that  he  who 
was  going  down  with  us  to  Bath  and 
immortality,  would  not  kiss  either  of 
the  ladies  opposite  upon  the  road. 
"  Done !  Done  !  "  Now  I  am  sorry 
a  man  I  have  hitherto  praised  should 
have  lent  himself,  even  in  a  whisper, 
to  such  a  speculation  :  but  "  nobody  is 
wise  at  all  hours,"  not  even  when  the 
clock  is  striking  five-and-twenty  ;  and 
you  are  to  consider  his  profession,  his 
good  looks,  and  the  temptation,  —  ten 
to  three. 

After  Slough  the  party  was  reduced 
to  three :  at  Twyford  one  lady  dropped 
her  handkerchief;  Captain  Dolignan 
fell  on  it  like  a  tiger  and  returned  it 
like  a  lamb ;  two  or  three  words  were 
interchanged  on  that  occasion.  At 
Reading  the  Marlborough  of  our  tale 
made  one  of  the  safe  investments  of 
that  day ;  he  bought  a  "  Times  "  and 
a  "  Punch  "  ;  the  latter  was  full  of 
steel-pen  thrusts  and  wood-cute.  Val- 


293 


THE  BOX  TUNXEL. 


or  and  beauty  deigned  to  laugh  at 
some  inflated  humbug  or  other  punc- 
tured by  Punch.  Now  laughing  to- 
gether thaws  our  human  ice ;  long 
before  Swindon  it  was  a  talking 
match,  — at  Swindon  who  so  devoted 
as  Captain  Dolignan,  —  he  handed 
them  out,  —  he  souped  them,  —  he 
tough-chickened  them,  —  he  brandied 
and  cochinealed*  one,  and  he  bran- 
died  and  burnt-sugared  the  other ;  on 
their  return  to  the  carriage,  one  lady 
passed  into  the  inner  compartment  to 
inspect  a  certain  gentleman's  seat  on 
that  side  the  line. 

Reader,  had  it  been  you  or  I,  the 
beauty  would  have  been  the  deserter, 
the  average  one  would  have  stayed 
with  us  till  all  was  blue,  ourselves  in- 
cluded ;  not  more  surely  does  our 
slice  of  bread  and  butter,  when  it  es- 
capes from  our  hand,  revolve  it  ever 
so  often,  alight  face  downwards  on  the 
carpet.  But  this  was  a  bit  of  a  fop, 
Adonis,  dragoon,  —  so  Venus  re- 
mained in  tetc-a-tete  with  him.  You 
have  seen  a  dog  meet  an  unknown 
female  of  his  species  ;  how  hand- 
some, how  emprcsse,  how  expressive 
he  becomes  :  such  was  Dolignan  af- 
ter Swindon,  and,  to  do  the  dog  jus- 
tice, he  got  handsomer  and  hand- 
somer ;  and  you  have  seen  a  cat  con- 
scious of  approaching  cream,  —  such 
•was  Miss  Haythorn ;  she  became  de- 
murer and  demurer:  presently  our 
Captain  looked  out  of  window  and 
laughed ;  this  elicited  an  inquiring 
look  from  Miss  Haythorn.  "We 
are  only  a  mile  from  the  Box  Tun- 
nel." — "  Do  you  always  laugh  a 
mile  from  the  Box  Tunnel  ?  "  said  the 
lady. 

"  Invariably." 

"  What  for  7  " 

"  Why  !.  hem !  it  is  a  gentleman's 
joke." 

."  O,  I  don't  mind  its  being  silly,  if 
it  makes  me  laugh."  Captain  Dolig- 
nan, thus  encouraged,  recounted  to 

*  This  is  supposed  to  allude  to  two  decoc- 
tions called  port  and  sherry,  and  imagined  by 
one  earthly  nation  to  partake  of  a  vinous  na- 
ture. 


Miss  Haythorn  the  following  :  "  A 
lady  and  her  husband  sat  together 
going  through  the  Box  Tunnel,  — 
there  was  one  gentleman  opposite  ;  it 
was  pitch-dark ;  after  the  Tunnel  the 
lady  said, '  George,  how  absurd  of  you 
to  salute  me  going  through  the  tun- 
nel!'—  'I  did  no  such  thing  ! ' — '  You 
did  n't  7 '  —  <  No  !  why  7 '  —  '  Why, 
because  somehow  I  thought  you 
did  ! ' '  Here  Captain  Dolignan, 
laughed,  and  endeavored  to  lead  his 
companion  to  laugh,  bu.t  it  was  not  to 
be  done.  The  train  entered  the  tunnel. 
Miss  Haythorn.  "  Ah  !  " 
Dolignan.  "  What  is  the  matter  7  " 
Miss  Haythorn.  "  I  am  frightened." 
Dolignan  (moving  to  her  side). 
"  Pray  do  not  be  alarmed,  I  am  near 
you." 

Miss  Haythorn.  "  You  are  near  me, 
very  near  me  indeed,  Captain  Dolig- 
nan." 

Dolignan.   "  You  know  my  name !  " 
Miss  Haythorn.  "  I  heard  your  friend 
mention  it   I  wish  we  were  out  of  this 
dark  place." 

Dolignan.  "  I  could  be  content  to 
spend  hours  here,  reassuring  you, 
sweet  lady." 

Miss  Haythorn.  "  Nonsense !  " 
Dolignan.  "  Pweep  ! "  (Grave  read- 
er, do  not  put  your  lips  to  the  cheek 
of  the  next  pretty  creature  you  meet, 
or  you  wilt  understand  what  this 
means.) 

Miss  Haythorn.    "  Ee  !  Ee !  Ee  !  " 
Friend.    "  What  is  the  matter  7  " 
Afiss  Haythorn.   "  Open  the   door  ! 
open  the  door  !  " 

There  was  a  sound  of  hurried  whis- 
pers, the  door  was  shut  and  the  blind 
pulled  down  with  hostile  sharpness. 

If  any  critic  falls  on  me  for  putting 
inarticulate  sounds  in  a  dialogue  as 
above,  I  answer  with  all  the  insolence 
I  can  command  at  present,  "  Hit 
boys  as  big  as  yourself,"  bigger  per- 
haps, such  as  Sophocles,  Euripides, 
and  Aristophanes  ;  they  began  it,  and 
I  learned  it  of  them,  sore  against  my 
will. 

Miss  Haythorn's  scream  lost  a  part 
of  its  effect  because  the  engine  whis- 


THE  BOX   TUNNEL. 


299 


tied  forty  thousand  murders  at  the 
same  moment ;  and  fictitious  grief 
makes  itself  heard  when  real  can- 
not. 

Between  the  tunnel  and  Bath  our 
young  friend  had  time  to  ask  himself 
whether  his  conduct  had  been  marked 
by  that  delicate  reserve  which  is  sup- 
posed to  distinguish  the  perfect  gen- 
tleman. 

With  a  long  face,  real  or  feigned, 
he  held  open  the  door,  —  his  late 
friends  attempted  to  escape  on  the 
other  side,  —  impossible  !  they  must 
pass  him.  She  whom  he  had  insulted 
(Latin  for  kissed)  deposited  some- 
where at  his  foot  a  look  of  gentle 
blushing  reproach  ;  the  other,  whom 
he  had  not  insulted,  darted  red-hot 
daggers  at  him  from  her  eyes,  and  so 
they  parted. 

It  was,  perhaps,  fortunate  for  Do- 
lignan  that  he  had  the  grace  to  be 
friends  with  Major  Hoskyns  of  his 
regiment,  a  veteran  laughed  at  by  the 
youngsters,  for  the  Major  was  too  apt 
to  look  coldly  upon  billiard  balls  and 
cigars  ;  .he  had  seen  cannon  balls  and 
linstocks.  He  had  also,  to  tell  the 
truth,  swallowed  a  good  bit  of  the 
mess-room  poker,  but  with  it  some 
sort  of  moral  poker,  which  made  it  as 
impossible  for  Major  Hoskyns  to  de- 
scend to  an  ungentlemanlike  word  or 
action  as  to  brush  his  own  trousers 
below  the  knee. 

Captain  Dolignan  told  this  gentle- 
man his  story  in  gleeful  accents  ;  but 
Major  Hoskyns  heard  him  coldly,  and 
as  coldly  answered  that  he  had  known 
a  man  lose  his  life  for  the  same  thing. 
"  That  is  nothing,"  continued  the 
Major,  "but  unfortunately  he  de- 
served to  lose  it." 

At  this  the  blood  mounted  to  the 
younger  man's  temples,  and  his  se- 
nior added  :  "  I  mean  to  say  he  was 
thirty-five ;  you,  I  presume,  are  twen- 
ty-one ! " 

"  Twenty-five." 

"  That  is  much  the  same  thing ; 
will  you  be  advised  by  me  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  advise  me." 

"  Speak  to  no  one  of  this,  and  send 


White  the  £  3  that  he  may  think  you 
have  lost  the  bet." 

"  That  is  hard  when  I  won  it ! " 

"  Do  it  for  all.  that,  sir." 

Let  the  disbelievers  in  human  per- 
fectibility know  that  this  dragoon 
capable  of  a  blush  did  this  virtuous 
action,  albeit  with  violent  reluctance : 
and  this  was  his  first  damper.  A  week 
after  these  events,  he  was  at  a  ball. 
He  was  in  that  state  of  factitious  dis- 
content which  belongs  to  us  amiable 
English.  He  was  looking,  in  vain, 
for  a  lady,  equal  in  personal  attrac- 
tions to  the  idea  he  had  formed  of 
George  Dolignan  as  a  man,  when 
suddenly  there  glided  past  him  a  most 
delightful  vision  !  a  lady  whose  beauty 
and  symmetry  took  him  by  the  eyes, 

—  another   look  :   "  It    can't  be  !  — 
Yes,  it  is  !  "     Miss  Hay  thorn  !  (not 
that  he   knew  her  name!)  but  what 
an  apotheosis ! 

The  duck  had  become  a  pea-hen, 

—  radiant,  dazzling,  she  looked  twice 
as  beautiful  and  almost  twice  as  large 
as  before.     He  lost  sight  of  her.     Ho 
found  her  again.     She  was  so  lovely 
she  made  him   ill, — and  he,  alone, 
must  not   dance   with  her,  speak  to 
her.    If  he  had  been  content  to  begin 
her  acquaintance   the   usual  way,  it 
might  have  ended  in  kissing,  but  hav- 
ing begun  with  kissing  it  must  end  in 
nothing.     As  she   danced,  sparks  of 
beauty  fell  from  her  on  all  around, 
but  him, — she  did  not  see  him;  it 
was  clear  she  never  would  see  him,  — 
one  gentleman  was   particularly  as- 
siduous ;  she  smiled  on  his  assiduity ; 
he  was  ugly,  but  she  smiled  on  him. 
Dolignan  was  surprised  at  his  success, 
his  ill  taste,  his  ugliness,  his  imperti- 
nence.    Dolignan  at  last  found  him- 
self injured.     "  Who  was  this  man  ? 
and    what    right    had   he   to  go  on 
so  ?      He    had   never  kissed   her,    I 
suppose,"     said      Dolly.      Dolignan 
could  not  prove  it,  but  he  felt   that 
somehow  the  rights  of  property  were 
invaded.    He  went  home  and  dreamed 
of  Miss  Haythorn,  and  hated  all  the 
ugly  successful.*    He  spent  a  fort- 

*  When  our  successful  rival  is  ugly  tlio 


300 


THE  BOX  TUNNEL. 


night  trying  to  find  out  who  this 
beauty  was,  —  lie  never  could  encoun- 
ter her  again.  At  last  he  heard  of  her 
in  this  way ,  a  lawyer's  clerk  paid  him 
a  little  visit  and  commenced  a  little 
action  against  him,  in  the  name  of 
Miss  Haythorn,  for  insulting  her  in  a 
railway  train. 

The  young  gentleman  was  shocked ; 
endeavored  to  soften  the  lawyer's  clerk; 
that  machine  did  not  thoroughly  com- 
prehend the  meaning  of  the  term. 
The  lady's  name,  however,  was  at 
least  revealed  by  this  untoward  inci- 
dent ;  from  her  name  to  her  address 
was  but  a  short  step ;  and  the  same 
day  our  crestfallen  hero  lay  in  wait 
at  her  door,  and  many  a  succeeding 
day,  without  effect.  But  one  fine  af- 
ternoon she  issued  forth  quite  natu- 
rally, as  if  she  did  it  every  day,  and 
walked  briskly  on  the  nearest  Parade. 
Dolignan  did  the  same,  he  met  and 
passed  her  many  times  on  the  Parade, 
and  searched  for  pity  in  her  eyes,  but 
found  neither  look,  nor  recognition, 
nor  any  other  sentiment ;  for  all  this 
she  walked  and  walked,  till  all  the 
other  promenaders  were  tired  and 
gone,  —  then  her  culprit  summoned 
resolution,  and.  taking  off  his  hat, 
with  a  voice  tremulous  for  the  first 
time,  besought  permission  to  address 
her.  She  stopped,  blushed,  and  nei- 
ther acknowledged  nor  disowned  his 
acquaintance.  He  blushed,  stammered 
out  how  ashamed  he  was,  how  he  de- 
served to  be  punished,  how  he  was 
punished,  how  little  she  knew  how 
unhappy  he  was  ;  and  concluded  by 
begging  her  not  to  let  all  the  world 
know  the  disgrace  of  a  man  who  was 
already  mortified  enough  by  the  loss 
of  her  acquaintance.  She  asked  an 
explanation ;  he  told  her  of  the  action 
that  had  been  commenced  in  her  name ; 
she  gently  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
said,  "How  stupid  they  are."  Em- 
boldened by  this,  he  begged  to  know 
whether  or  not  a  life  of  distant  un- 
pretending devotion  would,  after  a 

blow  is  doubly  severe,  crushing,  —  we  fall  by 
bludgeon  :  we  who  thought  the  keenest  ra- 
pier might  perchance  thrust  at  us  in  vain. 


lapse  of  years,  erase  the  memory  of  hia 
madness,  —  his  crime  ! 

"  She  did  not  know ! 

"  She  must  now  bid  him  adieu,  as 
she  had  some  preparations  to  make 
for  a  ball  in  the  crescent,  where  every- 
body was  to  be."  They  parted,  and  Do- 
lignan determined  to  be  at  the  ball, 
where  everybody  was  to  be.  He  was 
there,  and  after  some  time  he  obtained 
an  introduction  to  Miss  Haythorn,  and 
he  danced  with  her.  Her  manner  was 
gracious.  With  the  wonderful  tact 
of  her  sex,  she  seemed  to  have  com- 
menced the  acquaintance  that  even- 
ing. That  night,  for  the  first  time, 
Dolignan  was  in  love.  I  will  spare 
the  reader  all  a  lover's  arts,  by  which 
he  succeeded  in  dining  where  she 
dined,  in  daucing  where  she  danced, 
•In  overtaking  her  by  accident,  when 
she  rode.  His  devotion  followed  her 
even  to  church,  where  our  dragoon 
was  rewarded  by  learning  there  is  a 
world  where  they  neither  polk  nor 
smoke, — the  two  capital  abominations 
of  this  one. 

He  made  acquaintance  with  her 
uncle,  who  liked  him,  and  he  saw  at 
last,  with  joy,  that  her  eye  loved  to 
dwell  upon  him,  when  she  thought  he 
did  not  observe  her. 

It  was  three  months  after  the  Box 
Tunnel,  that  Captain  Dolignan  called 
one  day  upon  Captain  Haythorn,  R. 
N.,  whom  he  had  met  twice  in  his 
life,  and  slightly  propitiated  by  vio- 
lently listening  to  a  cutting-out  expe- 
dition ;  he  called,  and  in  the  usual 
way  asked  permission  to  pay  his  ad- 
dresses to  his  daughter.  The  worthy 
Captain  straightway  began  doing 
Quarter-Deck,  when  suddenly  he  was 
summoned  from  the  apartment  by  a 
mysterious  message.  On  his  return 
he  announced,  with  a  total  change  of 
voice,  that,  "  It  was  all  right,  and  his 
visitor  might  run  alongside  as  soon 
as  he  chose."  "  My  reader  has  divined 
the  truth ;  this  nautical  commander, 
terrible  to  the  foe,  was  in  complete 
and  happy  subjugation  to  his  daugh- 
ter, our  heroine. 

As  he  was  taking  leave,  Dolignan 


THE  BOX   TUNNEL. 


301 


saw  liis  divinity  glido  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. He  followed  her,  observed 
a  sweet  consciousness  which  encour- 
aged him ;  that  consciousness  deep- 
ened into  confusion,  —  she  tried  to 
laugh,  she  cried  instead,  and  then  she 
smiled  again  ;  and  when  he  kissed  her 
hand  at  the  door,  it  was  "  George," 
and  "  Marian,"  instead  of  Captain 
this,  and  Miss  the  other.  A  reasona- 
ble time  after  this  (for  my  tale  is  mer- 
ciful and  skips  formalities  and  tortur- 
ing delays),  these  two  were  very 
happy,  —  they  were  once  more  upon 
the  railroad,  going  to  enjoy  their  hon- 
eymoon all  by  themselves.  Marian 
Dolignan  was  dressed  just  as  before, 
—  duck-like,  and  delicious;  all  bright, 
except  her  clothes  :  but  George  sat 
beside  her  this  time  instead  of  oppo- 
site; and  she  drank  him  in  gently  from* 
under  her  long  eyelashes.  "  Marian," 
said  George,  "  married  people  should 
tell  each  other  all.  Will  you  ever  for- 
give me  if  I  own  to  you  —  no  —  " 

"  Yes !  yes  ! " 

"  Well,  then  !  you  remember  the 
Box  Tunnel "  (this  was  the  first  al- 
lusion he  had  ventured  to  it),  "  I 
am  ashamed  to  say  I  had  bet  £3  to 
£10  with  White,  I  would  kiss  one  of 
you  two  ladies  " ;  and  George,  pathetic 
externally,  chuckled  within. 


"  I  know  that,  George ;  I  over- 
heard you,''  was  the  demure  reply. 

"  O,  you  overheard  me  1  impossi- 
ble." 

"  And  did  you  not  hear  me  whisper 
to  my  companion  ?  I  made  a  bet  with 
her." 

"  You  made  a  bet,  how  singular ! 
What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Only  a  pair  of  gloves,  George," 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  what  about 
it?" 

"  That,  if  you  did,  you  should  be  my 
husband,  dearest." 

"  Oh  !  —  but  stay  —  then  you  could 
not  have  been  so  very  angry  with  me, 
love;  why,  dearest,  then  who  brought 
that  action  against  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dolignan  looked  down. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  were  forgetting 
me  !  George,  you  will  never  forgive 
me?" 

"  Sweet  angel,  why,  here  is  the 
Box  Tunnel ! " 

Now,  reader,  —  fie !  —  no  !  no  such 
thing !  You  can't  expect  to  be  in- 
dulged in  this  way,  every  time  we 
come  to  a  dark  place,  —  besides,  it  is 
not  the  thing.  Consider,  two  sensible 
married  people,  —  no  such  phenome- 
non, I  assure  you,  took  place.  No 
scream  issued  in  hopeless  rivalry  of 
the  engine  —  this  time  ! 


JACK    OF    ALL    TRADES. 


A  MATTER-OF-FACT  ROMANCE. 


JACK   OF   ALL  TEADES. 


THERE  are  nobs  in  the  world,  and 
there  are  snobs. 

I  regret  to  say  I  belong  to  the  lat- 
ter department. 

There  are  men  that  roll  through 
life,  like  a  fire-new  red  ball  going 
across  Mr.  Lord's  cricket-ground  on 
a  sunshiny  day  ;  there  is  another  sort 
that  have  to  rough  it  in  general,  and, 
above  all,  to  fight  tooth  and  nail  for 
the  quartern-loaf,  and  not  always  win 
the  battle.  I  am  one  of  this  lot. 

One  comfort,  folk  are  beginning  to 
take  an  interest  in  us.  I  see  nobs  of 
the  first  water  looking  with  a  fatherly 
eye  into  our  affairs,  —  our  leaden  taxes 
and  feather  incomes  ;  our  fifteen  per 
cent  on  undeniable  security  when  the 
rich  pay  but  three  and  a  half;  our 
privations  and  vexations ;  our  dirt 
and  distresses  ;  and  one  day  a  liter- 
ary gent,  that  knows  my  horrible 
story,  assured  me  that  my  ups  and 
downs  would  entertain  the  nobility, 
gentry,  and  commonalty  of  these 
realms. 

"  Instead  of  grumbling  to  me,"  says 
he,  "  print  your  troubles,  and  I  prom- 
ise you  all  the  world  will  read  them, 
and  laugh  at  them." 

"  No  doubt,  sir,"  said  I,  rather 
ironical ;  "  all  the  world  is  at  leisure 
for  that." 

"  Why,  look  at  the  signs  of  the 
times,"  says  he ;  "  can't  you  see  work- 
men are  up  ?  so  take  us  while  we  are 
in  the  humor,  and  that  is  now.  We 
shall  not  always  be  for  squeezing  hon- 
ey out  of  weeds,  shall  we  ?  "  "  Not 
likely,  sir,"  says  I.  Says  he,  "  How 
nice  it  will  be  to  growl  wholesale  to  a 


hundred  thousand  of  your  country- 
men (which  they  do  love  a  bit  of  a 
growl),  instead  of  growling  retail  to 
a  small  family  that  has  got  hardened 
to  you ! "  And  there  he  had  me ; 
for  I  am  an  Englishman,  and  proud 
of  it,  and  attached  to  all  the  national 
habits  except  delirium  tremens.  In 
short,  what  with  him  inflaming  my 
dormant  conceit,  and  me  thinking, 
"  Well,  I  can  but  say  my  say,  and 
then  relapse  into  befitting  silence,"  I 
did  one  day  lay  down  the  gauge  and 
take  up  the  pen,  in  spite  of  my  wife's 
sorrowful  looks. 

She  says  nothing,  but  you  may  see 
she  does  not  believe  in  the  new  tool, 
and  that  is  cheerful  and  inspiriting  to 
a  beginner. 

However,  there  is  a  something  that 
gives  me  more  confidence  than  all  my 
literary  friend  says  about  "  workmen 
being  up  in  the  literary  world,"  and 
that  is  that  I  am  not  the  hero  of  my 
own  story. 

Small  as  I  sit  here  behind  my  wife's 
crockery  and  my  own  fiddles,  in  this 
thundering  hole,  Wardour  Street,  I 
was  for  many  years  connected  with 
one  of  the  most  celebrated  females  of 
modern  times.  Her  adventures  run 
side  by  side  with  mine.  She  is  the 
bit  of  romance  that  colors  my  humble 
life,  and  my  safest  excuse  for  intruding 
on  the  public. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FATHER  and  mother  lived  in  King 
Street,  Soho  :  he  was  a  fiddle-maker, 
T 


306 


JACK  OF  ALL   TRADES. 


and  taught  me  the  A  B  C  of  that  sci- 
ence at  odd  times  ;  for  I  had  a  reg- 
ular education,  and  a  very  good  one, 
at  a  school  in  West  Street.  This  part 
of  ray  life  was  as  smooth  as  glass. 
My  troubles  did  not  begin  till  I  was 
thirteen  :  at  that  age  my  mother  died, 
and  then  I  found  out  what  she  had 
bem  to  me  :  that  was  the  first  and  the 
worst  grief;  the  next  I  thought  bad 
enough.  Coming  in  from  school  one 
day,  about  nine  months  after  her 
death,  I  found  a  woman  sitting  by  the 
fire  opposite  father. 

I  came  to  a  stand  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  with  two  eyes  like  saucers, 
staring  at  the  pair ;  so  my  father  in- 
troduced me. 

"  This  is  your  new  mother.  Anne, 
this  is  John  !  " 

"  Come  and  kiss  me,  John,"  says 
the  lady.  Instead  of  which  John 
stood  stock-still,  and  burst  out  roar- 
ing and  crying  without  the  least  leav- 
ing off  staring,  which  to  be  sure  was 
a  cheerful,  encouraging  reception  for 
'a  lady  just  come  into  the  family.  I 
roared  pretty  hard  for  about  ten  sec- 
onds, then  stopped  dead  short,  and 
says  I,  with  a  sudden  calm,  the  moro 
awful  for  the  storm  that  had  raged  be- 
fore :  "  I  '11  go  and  tell  Mr.  Paley  !  " 
and  out  I  marched. 

Mr.  Paley  was  a  little  humpbacked 
tailor,  with  the  heart  of  a  dove  and 
the  spirit  of  a  lion  or  two.  I  made 
his  acquaintance  through  pitching  in- 
to two  boys  that  were  queering  his  pro- 
tuberances all  down  Princes  Street, 
Soho ;  a  kind  of  low  humor  he  de- 
tested ;  and  he  had  taken  quite  a  fan- 
cy to  me.  We  were  hand  and  glove, 
the  old  man  and  me. 

I  ran  to  Paley  and  told  him  what 
had  befallen  upon  the  house.  He  was 
not  struck  all  of  a  heap,  as  I  thought 
he  would  be ;  and  he  showed  me  it 
was  legal,  of  which  I  had  not  an 
idea  ;  and  his  advice  was  :  "  Put  a 
good  face  on  it,  or  the  house  will 
soon  bs  too  hot  to  hold  you,  boy." 

He  was  right.  I  don't  know  wheth- 
er it  was  my  fault  or  hers,  or  both's, 
but  we  could  never  mix.  I  had  seen 


another  face  by  that  fireside,  and 
heard  another  voice  in  the  house,  that 
seemed  to  me  a  deal  more  melodious 
than  hers,  and  the  house  did  become* 
hotter,  and  the  inmates'  looks  colder 
than  agreeable ;  so  one  clay  I  asked 
my  father  to  settle  me  in  some  other 
house  not  less  than  a  mile  from  King 
Street,  Soho.  He  and  step-mother 
jumped  at  the  offer,  and  apprenticed 
me  to  Mr.  Dawes.  Here  I  learned 
more  mysteries  of  guitar  -  making, 
violin-making,  etc.,  etc.,  and  lived  in 
tolerable  comfort  nearly  four  years  ; 
there  was  a  ripple  on  the  water, 
though.  My  master  had  a  brother,  a 
thickset,  heavy  fellow,  that  used  to 
bully  my  master,  especially  when  he 
was  groggy,  and  less  able  to  take  his 
own  part.  My  master  being  a  good 
fellow,  I  used  to  side  with  him,  and 
this  brought  me  a  skinful  of  sore 
bones  more  than  once,  I  can  tell  you. 
Bat  one  night,  after  some  mouths 
of  peace,  I  heard  a  terrible  scrim- 
mage, and,  running  down  into  the 
shop-parlor,  I  found  Dawes  junior 
pegging  into  Dawes  senior  no  al- 
lowance, and  him  crying  blue  mur- 
der. 

I  was  now  an  able-bodied  youth 
between  sixteen  and  seventeen  years 
of  age,  and,  having  a  little  score  of 
my  own  with  the  attacking  party,  I 
opened  quite  silent  and  business-like 
with  a  one,  two,  and  knocked  him  in- 
to a  corner  flat  perpendicular.  He 
was  dumfoundered  for  a  moment, 
but  the  next  he  came  out  like  a 
bull  at  me.  I  stepped  on  one  side, 
and  met  him  with  a  blow  on  the  side 
of  the  temple,  and  knocked  him  flat 
horizontal ;  and  when  he  offered  to 
rise  I  shook  my  fist  at  him,  and 
threatened  him  he  should  come  to 
grief  if  he  dared  to  move. 

At  this  time  he  went  on  quite  a  dif- 
ferent lay.  He  lay  still,  and  feigned 
dissolution  with  considerable  skill,  to 
frighten  iis ;  and  I  can't  say  I  felt 
easy  at  all ;  but  my  master,  who 
took  cheerful  views  of  everything  in 
his  cups,  got  the  enemy's  tumbler  of 
brandy  and  water,  and  with  hiccoughs 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


307 


and  absurd  smiles,  and  a  teaspoon, 
deposited  the  contents  gradually  on 
the  various  parts  of  his  body. 

"  Lez  revive  'm !  "  said  he. 

This  was  low  life  to  come  to  pass 
in  a  respectable  tradesman's  back  par- 
lor. But,  when  grog  comes  in  at 
the  door,  good  manners  walk  to  the 
window,  ready  to  take  leave  if  re- 
quested. Where  there  is  drink  there 
is  always  degradation  of  some  sort 
or  degree ;  put  that  in  your  tumblers 
and  sip  it ! 

After  this  no  more  battles.  The 
lowly  apprentice's  humble  efforts 
(pugilistic)  restored  peace  to  his  mas- 
ter's family. 

Six  months  of  calm  industry  now 
rolled  over,  and  then  I  got  into  trou- 
ble by  my  own  fault. 

Looking  back  upon  the  various 
fancies,  and  opinions,  and  crotchets 
that  have  passed  through  my  head 
at  one  time  or  another,  I  find  that, 
between  the  years  of  seventeen  and 
twenty-four,  a  strange  notion  beset 
me ;  it  was  this  :  that  women  are  all 
angels. 

For  this  chimera  I  now  began  to 
suffer,  and  continued  to  at  intervals 
till  the  error  was  rooted  out, — with 
their  assistance. 

There  were  two  women  in  my 
master's  house,  —  his  sister,  aged 
twenty-four,  and  his  cook,  aged  thirty- 
seven.  With  both  these  I  fell  ardent- 
ly in  love ;  and  so,  with  my  senti- 
ments, I  should  have  with  six,  had 
the  house  held  half  a  dozen.  Un- 
luckily, my  affections  were  not  ac- 
companied with  the  discretion  so 
ticklish  a  situation  called  for.  The 
ladies  found  one  another  out,  and  I 
fell  a  victim  to  the  virtuous  indigna- 
tion that  fired  three  bosoms. 

The  cook,  in  virtuous  indignation 
that  an  apprentice  should  woo  his 
master's  sister,  told  my  master. 

The  young  lady,  in  virtuous  indig. 
that  a  boy  should  make  a  fool  of 
"  that  old  woman,"  told  my  master, 
who,  unluckily  for  me,  was  now  the 
quondam  Dawes  junior  ;  Dawes  sen- 
ior having  retired  from  the  active 


business,  and  turned  sleeping  and 
drinking  partner. 

My  master,  whose  v.  i.  was  the 
strongest  of  the  three,  since  it  was  him 
I  had  leathered,  took  me  to  Bow  Street, 
made  his  complaint,  and  forced  me  to 
cancel  my  indentures ;  the  cook,  with 
tears,  packed  up  my  Sunday  suit; 
the  young  lady  opened  her  bedroom 
door  three  inches,  and  shut  it  with  a 
don't-come-anigh-me  slam  ;  and  I 
drifted  out  to  London  with  eighteen- 
pencc  and  my  tools. 

On  looking  back  on  this  incident 
of  my  life,  I  have  a  regret,  —  a  poign- 
ant one ;  it  is,  that  some  good  Chris- 
tian did  not  give  me  a  devilish  good 
hiding  into  the  bargain  then  and  there. 

I  did  not  feel  quit  strong  enough  in 
the  spirits  to  go  where  I  was  sure  to 
be  blown  up,  so  I  skirted  King  Street 
and  entered  the  Seven  Dials,  and  went 
to  Mr.  Paley  and  confessed  my  sins. 

How  differently  the  same  thing  is 
seen  by  different  eyes  !  All  the  morn- 
ing I  had  been  called  a  young  vil- 
lain, first  by  one,  then  by  another, 
till  at  last  I  began  to  see  it.  Mr. 
Paley  viewed  me  in  the  light  of 
martyr,  and  I  remember  I  fell  into 
his  views  on  the  spot. 

Paley  was  a  man  that  had  his  little 
thcorj-  about  women,  and  it  differed 
from  my  juvenile  one. 

He  held  that  women  are  at  bottom 
the  seducers,  men  the  seduced.  "  The 
men  court  the  women,  I  grant  you, 
but  so  it  is  the  fish  that  runs  after 
the  bait,"  said  he.  "  The  women 
draw  back  ?  yes,  and  so  does  the  an- 
gler draw  back  the  bait  when  the 
fish  are  shy,  don't  he  ?  and  then  the 
silly  gudgeons  misunderstand  the 
move,  and  make  a  rush  at  it,  and  get 
hooked,  —  like  you." 

Holding  such  vile  sentiments,  he 
shifted  all  the  blame  off  my  shoul- 
ders. He  turned  to  and  abused  the 
whole  gang,  as  he  called  the  family 
in  Litchfield  Street  I  had  just  left, 
instead  of  reading  me  the  lesson  for 
the  day,  which  he  ought,  and  I  should 
have  listened  to  from  him,  — perhaps. 

"  Now,  then,  don't  hang  your  head 


308 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


like  that,"  shouted  the  spunky  little 
fellow,  "  snivelling  and  whimpering 
at  your  time  of  life  !  We  are  going 
to  have  a  jolly  good  supper,  you  and 
I,  that  is  what  we  are  going  to  do  ; 
and  you  shall  sleep  here.  My  daugh- 
ter is  at  school ;  you  shall  have  her 
room.  I  am  in  good  work,  —  thirty 
shillings  a  week,  —  that  is  plenty  for 
three,  Lucy  and  you  and  me  "  (him- 
self last).  "  Your  father  is  n't  worth 
a  bone  button,  and  your  mother  is  n't 
worth  the  shank  to"  it ;  I  'm  your  fa- 
ther, and  your  mother  into  the  bar- 
gain, for  want  of  a  better.  You  live 
with  me,  and  snap  your  fingers  at 
Dawes  and  all  his  crew, — ha  !  ha  !  a 
fine  loss,  to  be  sure.  The  boy  is  a  fool, 
—  cooks,  and  coquettes,  and  fiddle- 
touters,  rubbish  not  worth  picking  up 
out  of  a  gutter,  —  they  be  d — d." 

And  so  I  was  installed  in  Miss 
Paley's  apartment,  Seven  Dials  ;  and 
nothing  would  have  made  my  adopted 
parent  happier  than  for  me  to  put  my 
hands  in  my  pockets,  and  live  upon 
goose  and  cabbage.  But  downright 
laziness  was  never  my  character.  I 
went  round  to  all  the  fiddle-shops, 
and  offered,  as  bold  as  brass,  to  make 
a  violin,  a  tenor  or  a  bass,  and  bring 
it  home.  Most  of  them  looked  shy  at 
me,  for  it  was  necessary  to  trust  me 
with  the  wood,  and  to  lend  me  one 
or  two  of  the  higher  class  of  tools, 
such  as  a  turning-saw  and  a  jointing- 
plane. 

At  last  I  came  to  Mr.  Dodd,  in 
Berners  Street.  Here  my  father's 
name  stood  me  in  stead.  Mr.  Dodd 
risked  his  wood  and  the  needful  tools, 
and  in  eight  days  I  brought  him,  with 
conceit  and  trepidation  mixed  in  equal 
part,  a  violin,  which  I  had  sometimes 
feared  would  frighten  him,  and  some- 
times hoped  would  charm  him.  He 
took  it  up,  gave  it  one  twirl  round, 
satisfied  himself  it  was  a  fiddle,  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent,  put  it  in  the  win- 
dow along  with  the  rest,  and  paid  for 
it  as  he  would  for  a  penny  roll.  I 
timidly  proposed  to  make  another  for 
him  ;  he  grunted  a  consent,  which  it 
did  not  seem  to  me  a  rapturous  one. 


Mr.  Metzlcr  also  ventured  to  give  me 
work  of  this  kind.  For  some  months 
I  wrought  hard  all  day,  and  amused 
myself  with  my  companions  all  the 
evening,  selecting  my  pals  from  the 
following  classes :  small  actors,  show- 
men, pedestrians,  and  clever  discon- 
tented mechanics ;  one  lot  I  never 
would  have  at  any  price,  and  that  was 
the  stupid  ones,  that  could  only  booze, 
and  could  not  tell  me  anything  I  did 
not  know  about  pleasure,  business, 
and  life. 

This  was  a  bright  existence  ;  so  it 
came  to  a  full  stop. 

At  one  and  the  same  time  Miss 
Paley  came  home,  and  the  fiddle- 
trade  took  one  of  those  chills  all 
fancy  trades  are  subject  to. 

No  work  —  no  lodging  without 
paying  for  it — no  wherewithal. 


CHAPTER  II. 

JOHN  BEARD,  a  friend  of  mine, 
was  a  painter  and  grainer.  His  art 
was  to  imitate  oak,  maple,  walnut, 
satin-wood,  etc.,  etc.,  upon  vulgar  deal, 
beech,  or  what  not. 

This  business  works  thus :  first,  a 
coat  of  oil-color  is  put  on  with  a 
brush,  and  this  color  imitates  what 
may  be  called  the  background  of  the 
wood  that  is  aimed  at ;  on  this  oil- 
background  the  champ,  the  fibre,  the 
grain  and  figure,  and  all  the  incidents 
of  the  superior  wood,  are  imitated  by 
various  manoeuvres  in  water-colors, 
or,  rather,  in  beer-colors,  for  beer  is 
the  approved  medium.  A  coat  of 
varnish  over  all  gives  a  unity  to  the 
work. 

Beard  was  out  of  employ ;  so  was 
I :  bitter  against  London  ;  so  was  I. 
He  sounded  me  about  trying  the 
country,  and  I  agreed  ;  and  this  was 
the  first  step  of  my  many  travels. 

We  started  the  next  day,  —  he  with 
his  brushes,  and  a  few  colors/and  one 
or  two  thin  panels  painted  by  way  of 
advertisement,  and  I  with  hope,  inex- 
perience, and  threepence.  On  the 


JACK  OF  ALL  TKADES. 


309 


road  we  spent  this  and  his  fivcpence, 
and  entered  the  town  of  Brentford 
toward  nightfall  as  empty  as  drums 
and  as  hungry  as  wolves. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  After  a 
long  discussion,  we  agreed  to  go  to 
the  mayor  of  the  town  and  tell  him 
our  case,  and  offer  to  paint  his  street 
door  in  the  morning  if  he  would  save 
our  lives  for  the  night. 

We  went  to  the  mayor ;  luckily  for 
us,  he  had  risen  from  nothing,  as  we 
were  going  to  do,  and  so  he  knew 
exactly  what  we  meant  when  we 
looked  up  in  his  face  and  laid  our 
hands  on  our  sausage-grinders.  He 
gave  us  eightccn-pence  and  an  order 
on  a  lodging-house,  and  put  bounds 
to  our  gratitude  by  making  us  prom- 
ise to  let  his  street  door  alone.  We 
thanked  him  from  our  hearts,  supped 
and  went  to  bed,  and  agreed  the 
country  (as  we  two  cockneys  called 
Brentford)  was  chock-full  of  good  fel- 
lows. 

The  next  day  up  early  in  the 
morning,  and  away  to  Hounslow. 
Here  Beard  sought  work  all  through 
the  town,  and  just  when  we  were  in  de- 
spair he  got  one  door.  We  dined 
and  slept  on  this  door,  but  we  could 
not  sup  off  it ;  we  had  twopence  over, 
though,  for  the  morning,  and  walked 
on  a  penny  roll  each  to  Maidenhead. 

Here,  as  we  entered  the  town,  we 
passed  a  little  house  with  the  door 
painted  oak,  and  a  brass  plate  an- 
nouncing a  plumber  and  glazier,  and 
house-painter.  Beard  pulled  up  be- 
fore this  door  in  sorrowful  contempt. 
"  Now  look  here,  John,"  says  he, 
"  here  is  a  fellow  living  among  the 
woods,  and  you  would  swear  he  never 
saw  an  oak  plank  in  his  life  to  look 
at  his  work." 

Before  so  very  long  we  came  to 
another  specimen  :  this  was  maple, 
and  further  from  Nature  than  a  law- 
yer from  heaven,  as  the  saying  is. 
"  There,  that  will  do,"  says  Beard. 
"  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  we  must  try 
a  different  move ;  it  is  no  use  looking 
for  work ;  folks  will  only  employ 
their  own  tradesmen ;  we  must  teach 


the  professors  of  the  art  at  so  much  a 
panel." 

"  Will  they  stomach  that  ?  "  said  I. 

"  I  think  they  will,  as  we  are 
strangers  and  from  London.  You  go 
and  see  whether  there  is  a  fiddle  to  be 
doctored  in  the  town,  and  meet  me 
again  in  the  market-place  at  twelve 
o'clock." 

I  did  meet  him,  and  forlorn  enough 
I  was.  My  trade  had  broke  down  in 
Maidenhead ;  not  a  job  of  any  sort. 

"  Come  to  the  public-house  !  "  was 
his  first  word.  That  sounded  well,  I 
thought. 

We  sat  down  to  bread  and  cheese 
and  beer,  and  he  told  his  tale. 

It  seems  he  went  into  a  shop,  told 
the  master  he  was  a  painter  and 
graincr  from  a  great  establishment  in 
London,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  trav- 
elling and  instructing  provincial  art- 
ists in  the  business.  The  man  was  a 
pompous  sort  of  a  customer,  and  told 
Beard  he  knew  the  business  as  well 
as  he  did,  better  belike. 

Beard  answered :  "  Then  you  are 
the  only  one  here  that  docs ;  for  I  've 
been  all  through  the  town,  and  any- 
thing wider  from  the  mark  than  their 
oak  and  maple  I  never  saw."  Then 
he  quietly  took  down  his  panels  and 
spread  them  out,  and,  looking  out 
sharp,  he  noticed  a  sudden  change 
come  over  the  man's  face. 

"  Well,"  says  the  man,  "  we  reckon 
ourselves  pretty  good  at  it  in  this  town. 
However,  I  shouldn't  mind  seeing 
how  you  London  chaps  do  it :  what 
do  you  charge  for  a  specimen  ?  " 

"  My  charge  is  tw6  shillings  a  pan- 
el. What  wood  should  you  like  to 
gain  a  notion  of  1  "  said  B'eard,  as  dry 
as  a  chip. 

"  Well,  —  satin-wood." 

Beard  painted  a  panel  of  satin- 
wood  before  his  eyes,  and,  of  course, 
it  was  done  with  great  ease,  and  on  a 
better  system  than  had  reached  Maid- 
enhead up  to  that  time.  "  Now," 
says  Beard,  "  I  must  go  to  dinner." 

"  Well,  come  back  again,  my  lad," 
says  the  man,  "  and  we  will  go  in  for 
something  else."  So  Beard  took  his 


310 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


two   shillings  and  met  me  as   afore- 
said. 

After  dinner  he  asked  for  a  private 
room.       "  A  private  room,"  said  I ; 
"  had  n't  you  better  order  our  horse 
and  gig  out,  and  go  and  call  on  the  I 
rector  1  " 

"  None  of  your  chaff,"  says  he. 

When  we  got  into  the  room  he 
opened  the  business. 

"  Your  trade  is  no  good ;  you  must 
take  to  mine." 

"  What !  teach  painters  how  to 
paint,  when  I  don  t  know  a  stroke 
myself!  " 

"  Why  not  ?  You  've  only  got  it  to 
learn ;  they  have  got  to  unlearn  all 
they  know ;  that  is  the  only  long 
process  about  it  I  '11  teach  you  in 
live  minutes,"  says  he  :  "  look  here." 
He  then  imitated  oak  before  me,  and 
made  me  do  it.  He  corrected  my 
first  attempt;  the  second  satisfied 
him :  we  then  went  on  to  maple,  and 
so  through  all  the  woods  he  could 
mimic.  He  then  returned  to  his  cus- 
tomer, and  I  hunted  in  another  part 
of  the  town,  and  before  nightfall  I  act- 
ually gave  three  lessons  to  two  pro- 
fessors :  it  is  amazing,  but  true,  that 
I,  who  had  been  learning  ten  minutes, 
taught '  men  who  had  been  all  their 
lives  at  it  —  in  the  country. 

One  was  so  pleased  with  his  tutor 
.  that  he  gave  me  a  pint  of  beer  besides 
my  fee.     I   thought  he  was   poking 
fun  when  he  first  offered  it  me. 

Beard  and  I  met  again  triumphant. 
We  had  a  rousing  supper  and  a  good 
bed,  and  the  next  day  started  for  Hen- 
ley, where  we  both  did  a  small  stroke 
of  business,  and  on  fo  Reading  for  the 
night. 

Our  goal  was  Bristol.  Beard  had 
friends  there.  But  as  we  zigzagged 
for  the  sake  of  the  towns,  we  were 
three  weeks  walking  to  that  city ;  but 
we  reached  it  at  last,  having  dissem- 
inated the  science  of  graining  in  many 
cities,  and  got  good  clothes  and  money 
in  return. 

At  Bristol  we  parted.  He  found 
regular  employment  the  first  day,  and 
I  visited  the  fiddle-shops  and  offered 


my  services.  At  most  I  was  refused  ; 
at  one  or  two  I  got  trifling  jobs  ;  but 
at  last  I  went  to  the  right  one.  The 
master  agreed  with  me  for  piece-work 
on  a  large  scale,  and  the  terms  were 
such  that  by  working  quick  and  very 
steady  I  could  make  about  twenty-five 
shillings  a  week.  At  this  I  kept  two 
years,  and  might  have  longer,  no 
doubt,  —  but  my  employer's  niece  • 
came  to  live  with  him. 

She  was  a  woman ;  and  my  theory 
being  in  full  career  at  this  date,  mu- 
tual ardor  followed,  and  I  asked  her 
hand  of  her  uncle,  and  instead  of  that 
he  gave  me  what  the  Turkish  ladies 
get  for  the  same  offence,  —  the  sack. 
Off  to  London  again,  and  the  money  I 
had  saved  by  my  industry  just  landed 
me  in  the  Seven  Dials  and  sixpence 
over. 

I  went  to  Paley,  crestfallen  as  usu- 
al. He  heard  my  story,  compliment- 
ed me  on  my  energy,  industry,  and  tal- 
ent, regretted  the  existence  of  woman, 
and  inveighed  against  her  character 
and  results. 

We  went  that  evening  to  private 
theatricals  in  Berwick  Street,  and 
there  I  fell  in  with  an  acquaintance  in 
the  firework  line.  On  hearing  my 
case,  he  told  me  I  had  just  fallen  from 
the  skies  in  time ;  his  employer  want- 
ed a  fresh  hand. 

The  very  next  day  behold  me  grind- 
ing, and  sifting,  and  ramming  powder 
at  Somers  Town,  and  at  it  ten  months. 

My  evenings,  when  I  was  not  undo- 
ing my  own  work  to  show  its  brillian- 
cy, were  often  spent  in  private  theat- 
ricals. 

I  hear  a  row  made  just  now  about  a 
dramatic  school. 

"  We  have  no  dramatic  schools,"  is 
the  cry.  Well,  in  the  day  I  speak  of 
there  were  several ;  why,  I  belonged 
to  two.  We  never  brought  to  light 
an  actor,  btit  we  succeeded  so  far  as  to 
ruin  more  than  one  lad  who  had  brains 
enough  to  make  a  tradesman,  till  we 
heated  those  brains  and  they  boiled  all 
away. 

The  way  we  destroyed  youth  was 
this  :  of  course  nobody  would  pay  a 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


311 


shilling  at  the  door  to  sec  us  running 
wild  among  Shakespeare's  lines  like 
pigs  broken  into  a  garden,  so  the  ex- 
penses fell  upon  the  actors,  and  they 
paid  according  to  the  value  of  the  part 
each  played.  Richard  the  Third  cost 
a  puppy  two  pounds  ;  Richmond,  fif- 
teen shillings ;  and  so  on ;  so  that 
with  us,  as  in  the  big  world,  dignity 
went  by  wealth,  not  merit.  I  remem- 
ber this  made  me  sore  at  the  time ; 
still,  there  are  two  sides  to  every- 
thing :  they  say  poverty  urges  men  to 
crime  ;  mine  saved  me  from  it.  If  I 
could  have  afforded,  I  would  have  mur- 
dered one  or  two  characters  that  have 
lived  with  good  reputation  from  Queen 
Bess  to  Queen  Victoria ;  but,  as  I 
could  n't  afford  it,  others  that  could 
did  it  for  me. 

Well,  in  return  for  his  cash  Rich- 
ard, or  Hamlet,  or  Othello  command- 
ed tickets  in  proportion ;  for  the 
tickets  were  only  gratuitous  to  the 
spectators. 

Consequently,  at  night,  each  im- 
portant actor  played  not  only  to  a 
most  merciful  audience,  but  a  large 
band  of  devoted  friendly  spirits  in  it, 
who  came,  not  to  judge  him,  but  ex- 
press to  carry  him  through  trium- 
phant, —  like  an  election.  Now  when 
a  vain,  ignorant  chap  hears  a  lot  of 
hands  clapping,  he  has  not  the  sense 
to  say  to  himself  "  paid  for !  "  No,  it 
is  applause,  and  applause  stamps  his 
own  secret  opinion  of  himself.  He 
was  off  his  balance  before,  and  now 
he  tumbles  heel  over  tip  into  the  no- 
tion that  he  is  a  genius ;  throws  his 
commercial  prospects  after  the  two 
pounds  that  went  in  Richard  or  Bev- 
erley,  and  crosses  Waterloo  Bridge 
spouting, 

"  A  fico  for  the  shop  and  poplins  base  ! 
Counter,  avaunt !  I  on  his  southern  bank 
Will  fire  the  Thames." 

Noodle,  thus  singing,  goes  over  the 
water.  But  they  won't  have  him  at 
the  Surrey  or  the  Vic.,  so  he  takes  to 
the  country ;  and,  while  his  money 
lasts,  and  he  can  pay  the  mismanager 
of  a  small  theatre,  he  gets  leave  to 


play  with  Richard  and  Hamlet.  But 
when  the  money  is  gone,  and  he 
wants  to  be  paid  for  Richard  &  Co., 
they  laugh  at  him,  and  put  him  in 
his  right  place,  and  that  is  a  utility, 
and  perhaps  ends  a  "  super  "  ;  when, 
if  he  had  not  been  a  coxcomb,  he 
might  have  sold  ribbon  like  a  man  to 
his  dying  day. 

We  and  our  dramatic  schools  ruined 
more  than  one  or  two  of  this  sort  by 
means  of  his  vanity  in  my  young 
days. 

My  poverty  saved  me.  The  conceit 
was  here  in  vast  abundance,  but  not 
the  funds  to  intoxicate  myself  with 
such  choice  liquors  as  Hamlet  &  Co. 
Nothing  above  old  Gobbo  (five  shil- 
lings) ever  fell  to  my  lot  and  by  my 
talent. 

When  I  had  made  and  let  off  fire- 
works for  a  few  months,  I  thought  I 
could  make  more  as  a  rocket-master 
than  a  rocket-man.  I  had  saved  a 
pound  or  two.  Most  of  my  friends 
dissuaded  me  from  the  attempt ;  but 
Paley  said  :  "  Let  him  alone  now ; 
don't  keep  him  down  ;  he  is  born  to 
rise.  I  '11  risk  a  pound  on  him."  So, 
by  dint  of  several  small  loans,  I  got 
the  materials  and  made  a  set  of  fire- 
works myself,  and  agreed  with  the 
keeper  of  some  tea-gardens  at  Hamp- 
stead  for  the  spot. 

At  the  appointed  time,  attended  by 
a  trusty  band  of  friends,  I  put  them 
up ;  and,  when  I  had  taken  a  toler- 
able sum  at  the  door,  I  let  them  all 
off. 

But  they  did  not  all  profit  by  the 
permission.  Some  went,  but  others, 
whose  supposed  destination  was  the 
sky,  soared  about  as  high  as  a  house, 
then  returned  and  forgot  their  wild 
nature,  and  performed  the  office  of 
our  household  fires  upon  the  clothes 
of  my  visitors ;  and  some  faithful 
spirits,  like  old  domestics,  would  not 
leave  their  master  at  any  price,  — 
would  not  take  their  discharge.  Then 
there  was  a  row,  and  I  should  have 
been  mauled,  but  my  guards  rallied 
round  me  and  brought  me  off  with 
whole  bones,  and  marched  back  to 


312 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


London  with  me,  quizzing  me  and 
drinking  at  my  expense.  The  pub- 
lican refused  to  give  me  my  prom- 
ised fee,  and  my  loss  by  ambition 
was  twenty-eight  shillings  and  my 
reputation,  —  if  you  could  call  that  a 
loss. 

Was  not  I  quizzed  up  and  down 
the  Seven  Dials  !  Paley  alone  con- 
trived to  stand,  out  in  my  favor. 
"Nonsense!  a  first  attempt,"  said 
he ;  "  they  mostly  fail.  Don't  you 
give  in  for  those  fools  !  I  '11  tell  you 
a  story.  There  was  a  chap  in  prison 

—  I  forget  his  name.     He  lived  in  the 
old  times  a  few  hundred  years  ago. 
I  can't  justly  say  how  many.    He 
had  failed,  —  at  something  or  other, 

—  I  don't  know  how  many   times, 
and  there  he  was.     Well,  Jack,  one 
day  he  notices  a  spider  climbing  up  a 
thundering   great  slippery  stone  in 
the  wall.     She  got  a  little  way,  then 
down  she  fell ;  up  again,  and  tries  it 
on  again  ;    down  again.     Ah !  says 
the  man,  you  will  never  do  it     But 
the  spider  was  game.    She  got  six 
falls,  but,  by  George,  the  seventh  trial 
she  got  up.     So  the  gentleman  says, 
'  A  man  ought  to  have  as  much  heart 
as  a  spider :  I  won't  give  in  till  the 
seventh  trial.'    Bless  you,  long  be- 
fore the  seventh  he  carried  all  before 
him,  and  got  to  be  King  of  England 

—  or  something." 

"  King  of  England ! "  said  I ;  "  that 
was  a  move  upward  out  of  the  stone 

jag-" 

"  Well,"  said  Paley  the  hopeful, 
"  you  can't  be  King  of  England,  but 
you  may  be  the  fire-king  —  he !  he  ! 

—  if  you  are  true  to  powder.    How 
much  money  do  you  want  to   try 
again? " 

I  was  nettled  at  my  failure ;  and, 
fired  by  Paley  and  his  spider,  I 
scraped  together  a  few  pounds  once 
more,  and  advertised  a  display  of  fire- 
works for  a  certain  Monday  night. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  Paley 
and  I  happened  to  walk  on  the 
Hampstead  Road,  and  near  the  Adam 
and  Eve  we  fell  in  with  an  announce- 
ment of  fireworks.  On  the  bill  ap- 


peared in  enormous  letters  the  follow- 
ing:— 

"  No  CONNECTION  WITH  THE  DIS- 
GRACEFUL EXHIBITION  THAT  TOOK 
PLACE  LAST  FRIDAY  WEEK  !  !  " 

Paley  was  in  a  towering  passion. 
"  Look  here,  John,"  says  he ;  "  but 
never  you  mind;  it  won't  be  here 
long,  for  I  '11  tear  it  down  in  about 
half  a  moment." 

"  No,  you  must  not  do  that,"  said 
I,  a  little  nervous. 

"Why  not,  you  poor-spirited  muff?" 
shouts  the  little  fellow  :  "  let  me  alone 
—  let  me  get  at  it  —  what  are  you 
holding  me  for  ?  " 

No  !  no  !  no !    Well,  then  — " 

'  Well,  then,  what  ?  " 

'  Well,  then,  it  is  mine." 

'  What  is  yours  ?  " 

'  That  advertisement." 

'  How  can  it  be  yours,  when  it  in- 
sults you  ?  " 

'  O,  business  before  vanity." 

'  Well,  I  am  blessed  !  Here  'a  a 
go.  Look  here,  now  "  ;  and  he  began 
to  split  his  sides  laughing ;  but  all 
of  a  sudden  he  turned  awful  grave  : 
"  You  will  rise,  my  lad ;  this  is  genu- 
ine talent ;  they  might  as  well  try  to 
keep  a  balloon  down."  In  short,  my 
friend,  who  was  as  honest  as  the  day 
in  his  own  sayings  and  doings,  ad- 
mired this  bit  of  rascality  in  me,  and 
augured  the  happiest  results. 

That  district  of  London  which  is 
called  the  Seven  Dials  was  now  di- 
vided into  two  great  parties  ;  one  au- 
gured for  me  a  brilliant  success  next 
day,  the  other  a  dead  failure.  The 
latter  party  numbered  many  names 
unknown  to  fame,  the  former  consist- 
ed of  Paley.  I  was  neuter,  distrust- 
ing, not  my  merits,  but  what  I  called 
my  luck. 

On  Monday  afternoon  I  was  busy 
putting  out  the  fireworks,  nailing 
them  to  their  posts,  etc.  Toward 
evening  it  began  to  rain  so  heavily 
that  they  had  to  be  taken  in,  and  tho 
whole  thing  given  up ;  it  was  post- 
poned to  Thursday. 

On  Thursday  night  we  had  a  good 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


assembly ;  the  sum  taken  at  the  doors 
exceeded  my  expectation.  I  had  my 
misgivings  on  account  of  the  rain  that 
had  fallen  on  my  kickshaws  Monday 
evening1,  so  I  began  with  those  articles 
I  had  taken  in  first  out  of  the  rain. 
They  went  off  splendidly,  and  my  per- 
sonal friends  were  astounded ;  but  soon 
my  poverty  began  to  tell.  Instead  of 
having  many  hands  to  save  the  fire- 
works from  wet,  I  had  been  alone, 
and  of  course  much  time  had  been 
lost  in  getting  them  under  cover. 
We  began  now  to  get  among  the 
damp  lot,  and  science  was  lost  in 
chance  ;  some  would  and  some  would 
n't,  and  the  people  began  to  goose  me. 

A  rocket  or  two  that  fizzled  them- 
selves out  without  rising  a  foot  in- 
flamed their  angry  passions ;  so  I  an- 
nounced two  fiery  pigeons. 

The  fiery  pigeon  is  a  pretty  fire- 
work enough.  It  is  of  the  nature  of 
a  rocket,  but,  being  on  a  string,  it 
travels  backward  and  forward  be- 
tween two  termini,  to  which  the  string 
is  fixed.  When  there  are  two  strings 
and  two  pigeons,  the  fiery  wings  race 
one  another  across  the  ground,  and 
charm  the  gazing  throng.  One  of 
my  termini  was  a  tree  at  the  extrem- 
ity of  the  gardens.  Up  this  tree  I 
mounted  in  my  shirt-sleeves  with  my 
birds.  The  people  surrounded  the 
tree,  and  were  dead  silent.  I  could 
see  their  final  verdict  and  my  fate 
hung  on  these  pigeons.  I  placed 
them,  and  with  a  beating  heart  light- 
ed their  matches.  To  my  horror,  one 
did  not  move.  I  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  explode  green  sticks.  The 
other  started  and  went  off  with  great 
resolution  and  accompanying  cheers 
toward  the  opposite  side.  But  mid- 
way it  suddenly  stopped,  and  the 
cheers  with  it.  It  did  not  come  to  an 
end  all  at  once,  but  the  fire  oozed 
gradually  out  of  it  like  water.  A 
howl  of  derision  was  hurled  up  into 
the  tree  at  me  ;  but,  worse  than  that, 
looking  down,  I  saw  in  the  moonlight 
a  hundred  stern  faces,  with  eyes  like 
red-hot  emeralds,  in  which  I  read  my 
fate.  They  were  waiting  for  me  to 
14 


come  down,  like  terriers  for  a  rat  in  a 
trap,  and  I  felt  by  the  look  of  them 
that  they  would  kill  me,  or  near  it.  I 
crept  along  a  bough,  the  end  of  which 
cleared  the  wall  and  overhung  the 
road.  I  determined  to  break  my 
neck  sooner  than  fall  into  the  hands 
of  an  insulted  public.  An  impatient 
orange  whizzed  by  my  ear,  and  an  ap- 
ple knocked  my  hat  out  of  the  prem- 
ises. I  crouched  and  clung ;  luckily, 
I  was  on  an  ash-bough,  long,  taper- 
ing, and  tough  ;  it  bent  with  me  like 
a  rainbow.  A  stick  or  two  now 
whizzed  past  my  ear,  and  it  began  to 
hail  fruit.  I  held  on  like  grim  death 
till  the  road  was  within  six  feet  of  me, 
and  then  dropped  and  rah  off  home, 
like  a  dog  with  a  kettle  at  his  tail. 
Meantime  a  rush  was  made  to  the 
gate  to  cut  me  off;  but  it  was  too 
late.  The  garden  meandered,  and 
my  executioners,  when  they  got  to 
the  outside,  saw  nothing  but  a  flit- 
ting spectre — me  in  my  shirt-sleeves 
making  for  the  Seven  Dials. 

Mr.  and  Miss  Paley  were  seated  by 
their  fire,  and,  as  I  afterward  learned, 
Paley  was  recommending  her  to  me 
for  a  husband,  and  explaining  to  her 
at  some  length  why  I  was  sure  to  rise 
in  the  world,  when  a  figure  in  shirt- 
sleeves, begrimed  with  gunpowder, 
and  no  hat,  burst  into  the  room,  and 
shrank  without  a  word  into  the  corner 
by  the  fire. 

Miss  Paley  looked  up,  and  then  be- 
gan to  look  down  and  snigger.  Her 
father  stared  at  me,  and  after  a  while 
I  could  see  him  set  his  teeth  and  nerve 
his  obstinate  old  heart  for  the  coming 
struggle. 

"  Well,  how  did  it  happen  ?  "  said 
he,  at  last.  "  Where  is  your  coat  ?  " 

I  told  him  the  whole  story. 

Miss  Paley  had  her  hand  to  her 
mouth  all  the  time,  afraid  to  give  vent 
to  the  feelings  proper  to  the  occasion 
because  of  her  father. 

"Now  answer  me  one  question. 
Have  you  got  their  money  ? "  says 
Paley. 

"  Yes,  I  have  got  their  money,  for 
that  matter." 


314 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


"  Well,  then,  what  need  you  care  ? 
You  are  all  right ;  and  if  they  had 
gone  off  they  would  have  been  all  over 
by  now,  just  the  same.  He  wants  his 
supper,  Lucy.  Give  us  something 
hot,  to  make  us  forget  our  squibs  and 
crackers,  or  we  shall  die  of  a  broken 
heart,  all  us  poor  fainting  souls. 
Such  a  calamity!  The  rain  wetted 
them  through,  —  that  is  all ;  you 
couldn't  fight  against  the  elements, 
could  you  ?  Lay  the  cloth,  girl." 

"  But,  Mr.  Paley,"  whined  I,  "  they 
have  got  my  new  coat,  and  you  may 
be  sure  they  have  torn  it  limb  from 
jacket." 

"  Hare  they  ?  "  cried  he ;  "  well, 
that  is  a  comfort,  any  way.  Your 
new  coat,  eh  ?  Lucy,  it  hung  on  the 
boy's  back  like  an  old  sack.  Do  you 
see  this  bit  of  cloth  ?  I  shall  make 
you  a  Sunday  coat  with  this,  and  then 
you  '11  sell.  Fetch  a  quart  to-night, 
girl,  instead  of  a  pint :  the  fire-king 
is  going  to  do  us  the  honor.  Che-er 
np!!" 


CHAPTER  III. 

IT  was  now  time  that  Miss  Paley 
should  suffer  the  penalty  of  her  sex. 
She  was  a  comely,  good-humored,  and 
sensible  girl.  We  used  often  to  walk 
out  together  on  Sundays,  and  very 
friendly  we  were.  I  used  to  tell  her 
she  was  the  flower  of  her  sex,  and 
she  used  to  laugh  at  that  One  Sun- 
day I  spoke  more  plainly,  and  Laid 
my  heart,  my  thirteen  shillings,  the 
fruit  of  my  last  imposture  on  the  pub- 
lic, and  my  various  arts,  at  her  feet, 
out  walking. 

A  proposal  of  this  sort,  if  I  may 
trust  the  stories  I  read,  produces 
thrilling  effects.  If  agreeable,  the 
ladies  either  refuse  in  order  to  torment 
themselves,  which  act  of  virtue  justi- 
fies them,  they  think,  in  tormenting 
the  man  they  love,  or  else  they  show 
their  rapturous  assent  by  bursting 
out  crying,  or  by  fainting  away,  or 
their  lips  turning  cold,  and  other  signs 
proper  to  a  disordered  stomach ;  if  it  is 


to  be  "  no,"  they  are  almost  as  much 
cut  up  about  it,  and  say  no  like  yes, 
wliich  has  the  happy  result  of  leaving 
him  hope  and  prolonging  his  pain. 
Miss  Paley  did  quite  different.  She 
blushed  a  little,  and  smiled  archly  and 
said :  "  Now,  John,  you  and  I  are 
good  friends,  and  I  like  you  very 
much,  and  I  will  walk  with  you  and 
laugh  with  you  as  much  as  you  like ; 
but  I  have  been  engaged  these  two 
years  to  Charles  Hook,  and  I  4ove 
him,  John." 

"  Do  you,  Lucy  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  under  her  breath  a  bit. 

"Oh!" 

"  So,  if  we  are  to  be  friends,   you 

must  not  put   that  question   to   me 

again,  John.     What  do  you  say  1  we 

I  are  to  be  friends,  are  we  not  1  "  and 

she  put  out  her  hand. 

"  Yes,  Lucy." 

"And,  John,  you  need  not  go  for 
to  tell  my  father ;  what  is  the  use 
vexing  him  ?  He  has  got  a  notion, 
but  it  will  pass  away  in  time." 

I  consented,  of  course,  and  Lucy 
and  I  were  friends. 

Mr.  Paley  somehow  suspected  which 
way  his  daughter's  heart  turned,  and 
not  long  after  a  neighbor  told  me  he 
heard  him  quizzing  her  unmerciful 
for  her  bad  judgment.  As  for  harsh- 
ness or  tyranny,  that  was  not  under 
his  skin,  as  the  saying  is.  He  wound 
j  up  with  telling  her  that  John  was  a 
man  safe  to  rise. 

"  I  hope  he  may,  father,  I  am 
sure,"  says  Lucy. 

"  Well,  and  can't  you  see  he  is  the 
man  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  father,  I  can't  see  that,  — 
he !  he  ! " 


CHAPTER   IV. 

I  DOX'T  think  I  have  been  penniless 
not  a  dozen  times  in  my  life.  When 
I  get  down  to  twopence  or  three- 
pence, which  is  very  frequent  indeed, 
something  is  apt  to  turn  up  and  raise 
me  to  silver  once  more,  and  there  I 
stick.  But  about  this  time  I  lay  out 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


315 


of  work  a  long  time,  and  was  reduced 
to  the  lowest  ebb.  In  this  condition, 
a  friend  of  mine  took  me  to  the 
"  Harp,"  in  Little  Russell  Street,  to 
meet  Mr.  Webb,  the  manager  of  a 
strolling  company.  Mr.  Webb  was 
beating  London  for  recruits  to  com- 
plete his  company  which  lay  at  Bish- 
ops Stortford,  but  which,  owing  to 
desertions,  was  not  numerous  enough 
to  massacre  five-act  plays.  I  instant- 
ly offered  to  go  as  carpenter  and  scene- 
shifter.  To  this  he  demurred  :  he 
was  provided  with  them  already  ;  he 
wanted  actors.  .To  this  I  objected, 
not  that  I  cared  to  what  sort  of  work 
I  turned  my  hand,  but  in  these  com- 
panies a  carpenter  is  paid  for  his  day's 
work  according  to  his  agreement,  but 
the  actors  are  remunerated  by  a  share 
in  the  night's  profits,  and  the  profits 
are  often  written  in  the  following  fig- 
ures, —  £0  Os.  Od. 

However,  Mr.  Webb  was  firm  ;  he 
had  no  carpenter's  place  to  offer  me, 
so  I  was  obliged  to  lower  my  preten- 
sions. I  agreed  then  to  be  an  actor. 
I  was  cast  as  Father  Philip,  in  the 
"  Iron  Chest,"  next  evening,  my 
share  of  the  profits  to  be  one  eighth. 
I  borrowed  a  shilling,  and  my  friend 
Johnstone  and  I  walked  all  the  way 
to  Bishops  Stortford.  We  played  the 
"  Iron  Chest  "  and  divided  the  profits. 
Hitherto  I  had  been  in  the  mechan- 
ical arts  ;  this  was  my  first  step  into 
the  fine  ones.  Father  Philip's  share 
of  the  "  Chest "  was  2%d. 

Now  this  might  be  a  just  remuner- 
ation for  the  performance ;  I  almost 
think  it  was ;  but  it  left  the  walk, 
thirty  miles,  not  accounted  for. 

The  next  night  I  was  cast  in 
"  Jerry  Sneak."  I  had  no  objection 
to  the  part,  only,  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances, the  place  to  play.it 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  road  to  Lon- 
don, not  the  boards  of  Bishops  Stort- 
ford ;  so  I  sneaked  off  toward  the  Sev- 
en Dials.  Johnstone,  though  cast  for 
the  hero,  was  of  Jerry's  mind,  and 
sneaked  away  along  with  him. 

We  had  made  but  twelve  miles 
when  the  manager  and  a  constable 


came  up  with  us.  Those  were  per- 
emptory days ;  they  offered  us  our 
choice  of  the  fine  arts  again,  or  prison. 
After  a  natural  hesitation,  we  chose 
the  arts,  and  were  driven  back  to 
them  like  sheep.  Night's  profits  5c/. 
In  the  morning  the  whole  company 
dissolved  away  like  a  snowball. 
Johnstone  and  I  had  a  meagre  break- 
fast, and  walked  on  it  twenty-six 
miles.  He  was  a  stout  fellow,  — 
shone  in  brigands,  —  he  encouraged 
and  helped  me  along;  but  at  last  I 
could  go  no  farther. 

My  slighter  frame  was  quite  worn 
out  with  hunger  and  fatigue.  "  Leave 
me,"  I  said  ;  "  perhaps  some  charita- 
ble hand  will  aid  me,  and  if  not,  why, 
then  I  shall  die ;  and  I  don't  care  if  I 
do,  for  I  have  lost  all  hope." 

"  Nonsense,"  cried  the  fine  fellow. 
"  I  '11  carry  you  home  on  my  back 
sooner  than  leave  you.  Die  ?  that  is 
a  word  a  man  should  never  say. 
Come !  courage !  only  four  miles 
more." 

No.  I  could  not  move  from  the 
spot.  I  was  what  I  believe  seldom 
really  happens  to  any '  man,  dead 
beat  body  and  soul. 

I  sank  down  on  a  heap  of  stones. 
Johnstone  sat  down  beside  me. 

The  sun  was  just  setting.  It  was  a 
bad  lookout,  —  starving  people  to  lie 
out  on  stones  all  night.  A  man  can 
stand  cold,  and  he  can  fight  with 
hunger  ;  but  put  those  two  together, 
and  life  is  soon  exhausted. 

At  last  a  rumble  was  heard,  and 
presently  an  empty  coal-wagon  came 
up.  A  coal-heaver  sat  on  the  shaft, 
and  another  walked  by  the  side. 
Johnstone  went  to  meet  them  ;  they 
stopped  ;  I  saw  him  pointing  to  me, 
and  talking  earnestly. 

The  men  came  up  to  me ;  they 
took  hold  of  me,  and  shot  me  into  the 
cart  like  a  hundred-weight  of  coal. 
"  Why,  he  is  starving  with  cold,"  said 
one  of  them,  and  he  flung  half  a  doz- 
en empty  sacks  over  me,  and  on 
we  went.  At  the  first  public  the 
wagon  stopped,  and  soon  one  of  my 
new  friends,  with  a  cheerful  voice, 


316 


JACK  OF  ALL   TRADES. 


brought  a  pewter  flagon  of  porter  to 
me.  I  sipped  it.  "  Don't  be  afraid 
of  it,"  cried  he;  "  down  with  it;  it  is 
meat  and  drink,  that  is."  And,  in- 
deed, so  I  found  it.  It  was  a  heaven- 
ly solid  liquid  to  me ;  it  was  "  stout " 
by  name  and  "  stout "  by  nature. 

These  good  fellows,  whom  men  do 
right  to  call  black  diamonds,  carried 
me  safe  into  the  Strand,  and  thence, 
being  now  quite  my  own  man  again, 
I  reached  the  Seven  Dials.  Paley 
was  in  bed.  He  came  down  directly 
in  his  nightgown,  and  lighted  a  fire, 
and  pulled  a  piece  of  cold  beef  out  of 
the  cupboard,  and  cheered  me  as  usu- 
al, but  in  a  fatherly  way  this  time ; 
and  of  course,  at  my  age,  I  was  soon 
all  right  again,  and  going  to  take  the 
world  by  storm  to-morrow  morning. 
He  left  me  for  a  while  and  went  up 
stairs.  Presently  he  came  down 
again. 

"  Your  bed  is  ready,  John." 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  you  have  not 
three  rooms." 

"  Lucy  is  on  a  visit,"  said  he ;  then 
he  paused.  "  Stop  a  bit ;  I  '11  warm 
your  bed." 

He  took  me  up  stairs  to  my  old 
room  and  warmed  the  bed.  I,  iikc  a 
thoughtless  young  fool,  rolled  into  it 
half  gone  with  sleep,  and  never  woke 
till  ten  next  morning. 

I  don't  know  what  the  reader  will 
think  of  me  when  I  tell  him  that  the 
old  man  had  turned  Lucy  out  of  her 
room  into  his  own,  and  sat  all  night 
by  the  fire  that  I  might  lie  soft  after 
my  troubles.  Ah !  he  was  a  bit  of 
steel.  And  have  you  left  me,  and  can 
I  share  no  more  sorrow  or  joy  with 
you  in  this  world  ?  Eh !  dear,  it 
makes  me  misty  to  think  of  the  old 
man,  —  after  all  these  years. 


CHAPTER   V. 

I  USED  often  to  repair  and  doctor  a 
violin  for  a  gent  whom  I  shall  call 
Chaplin.  He  played  in  the  orchestra 
of  the  Adelphi  Theatre.  Mr.  Chap- 


lin was  not  only  a  customer,  but  a 
friend.  He  saw  how  badly  off  I  was, 
and  had  a  great  desire  to  serve  me. 
Now  it  so  happened  that  Mr.  Yates, 
the  manager,  was  going  to  give  an 
entertainment  he  called  his  "  At 
Homes,"  and  this  took  but  a  small 
orchestra,  of  which  Mr.  Chaplin  was 
to  be  the  leader ;  so  he  was  allowed 
to  engage  the  other  instruments,  and 
he  actually  proposed  to  me  to  be  a 
second  violin. 

I  stared  at  him.  "  How  can  I  do 
that  ? " 

"  Why,  I  often  hear  you  try  a  vio- 
lin." 

"  Yes,  and  I  always  play  the  same 
notes  ;  perhaps  you  have  observed 
that  too  ?  " 

"  I  notice  it  is  always  a  slow  move- 
ment—  eh?  Never  mind,  this  is  the 
only  thing  I  can  think  of  to  serve 
you  ;  you  must  strum  out  something ; 
it  will  be  a  good  thing  for  you,  you 
know." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "if  Mr.  Yates  will 
promise  to  sing  nothing  faster  than 
'  Je-m-sa-lem,  my  hap-py  home,'  I  '11 
accompany  him." 

No,  he  would  not  be  laughed  out 
of  it ;  he  was  determined  to  put 
money  in  my  pocket,  and  would  take 
no  denial.  "  Next  Monday  you  will 
have  the  goodness  to  meet  me  at  the 
theatre  at  six  o'clock  with  your  fiddle. 
Play  how  you  like,  play  inaudible  for 
what  I  care  ;  but  play  and  draw  your 
weekly  salary  you  must  and  shall." 

"  Play  inaudible,"  —  these  words 
sunk  to  the  very  bottom  of  me, — 
"  play  inaxidible." 

I  fell  into  a  brown  study  :  it  lasted 
three  days  and  three  nights ;  finally, 
to  my  good  patron's  great  content,  I 
consented  to  come  up  to  the  scratch, 
and  Monday  night  I  had  the  hardi- 
hood to  present  myself  in  the  music- 
room  of  the  Adelphi.  My  violin  was 
a  ringing  one.  I  tuned  up  the  loud- 
est of  them  all,  and  Mr.  Chaplin's 
eye  rested  on  me  with  an  approving 
glance. 

Time  was  called.  We  played  an 
overture,  and  accompanied  Mr.  Yates 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


317 


in  his  recitatives  and  songs,  and  per- 
formed pieces  and  airs  between  the 
acts,  etc.  The  leader's  eye  often  fell 
on  me,  and  when  it  did,  he  saw  the 
most  conscientious  workman  of  the 
crew  ploughing  every  note  with  singu- 
lar care  and  diligence. 

In  this  same  little  orchestra  was 
James  Bates,  another  favorite  of  Mr. 
Chaplin,  and  an  experienced  fiddler. 

This  young  man  was  a  great  chum 
of  mine.  He  was  a  fine  honest  young 
fellow,  but  of  rather  a  sataninc  tem- 
per. He  was  not  movable  to  mirth 
at  any  price.  He  would  play  without 
a  smile  to  a  new  pantomime,  — stuck 
there  all  night,  like  Solomon  cut  in 
black  marble  with  a  white  choker,  as 
solemn  as  a  tomb,  with  hundreds 
laughing  all  around. 

Once  or  twice  while  we  were  at 
work  I  saw  Mr.  Chaplin  look  at  Bates, 
knowing  we  two  were  chums,  and 
whenever  he  did  it  seems  the  young 
one  bit  his  lips  and  turned  as  red 
as  a  beet-root.  After  the  lights  were 
out  Mr.  Chaplin  congratulated  me 
before  Bates.  "  There,  you  see,  it 
is  not  so  very  hard ;  why,  hang  me 
if  you  did  not  saw  away  as  well  as 
the  best !  !  !  "  At  these  words  Bates 
gave  a  sort  of  yell  and  ran  home. 
Mr.  Chaplin  looked  after  him  with 
surprise.  "  There's  some  devil's 
delight  up  between  you  two,"  said 
he.  "  I  shall  find  it  out." 

Next  night  in  the  tuning-room  my 
fiddle  was  so  resonant  it  attracted  at- 
tention, and  one  or  two  asked  leave 
to  try  it.  "  Why  not  ?  "  said  I. 

During  work  Mr.  Chaplin  had  one 
eye  on  me  and  one  on  Bates,  and 
caught  the  perspiration  running  down 
my  face,  and  him  simpering  for  the 
first  time  in  the  history  of  the  Adel- 
phi. 

"  What  has  come  over  Jem  Bates  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Chaplin  to  me  ;  "  the  lad  is 
all  changed.  You  have  put  some  of 
your  late  gunpowder  into  him ;  there 
is  something  tip  between  you  two." 
After  the  play  he  got  us  together, 
and  he  looked  Bates  in  the  face,  and 
just  said  to  him,  "  Eh  ?  " 


At  this  wholesale  interrogatory 
Bates  laid  hold  of  himself  tight. 
"  No,  Mr.  Chaplin,  sir,  I  can't ;  it 
will  kill  me  when  it  does  come  out  of 
me." 

"  When  what  comes  out  t  You 
young  rascals,  if  you  don't  both  of 
you  tell  me,  I  '11  break  my  fiddle  over 
Bates,  and  Jack  shall  mend  it  free  of 
expense  gratis  for  nothing,  that  is  how 
I  '11  serve  mutineers  ;  come,  out  with 
it." 

"  Tell  him,  John,"  said  Bates,  de- 
murely. 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  tell  him  yourself,  if 
you  think  it  will  gratify  him."  I  had 
my  doubts. 

"  Well,"  said  Bates,  "  it  is  ungrate- 
ful to  keep  you  out  of  it,  sir,  so  —  he  ! 
he  !  —  I  '11  tell  you,  sir  —  this  second 
violin  has  two  bows  in  his  violin- 
case." 

"  Well,  stupid,  what  is  commoner 
than  that  for  a  fiddler  ?  " 

"  But  this  is  not  a  fiddler,"  squeaked 
Bates  ;  "  he 's  only  a  bower.  Oh  ! 
oh!  oh!" 

"  Only  a  bower  1 " 

"  No !  Oh  !  Oh !  I  shall  die  ;  it 
will  kill  me."  I  gave  a  sort  of  ghast- 
ly grin  myself. 

"  You  unconscionable  scoundrels  !" 
shouted  Mr.  Chaplin ;  "  there,  look 
at  this  Bates  ;  he  is  at  it  again  ;  a  fel- 
low that  the  very  clown  could  never 
raise  a  laugh  out  of,  and  now  I  see 
him  all  night  smirking,  and  grinning, 
and  looking  down  like  a  jackdaw  that 
has  got  his  claw  on  a  thimble.  If 
you  don't  speak  out,  I  '11  knock  your 
two  tormenting  skulls  together  till 
they  roll  off  down  the  gutter  side 
by  side,  chuckling  and  giggling  all 
day  and  all  night."  At  this  direful 
mysterious  threat  Bates  composed 
himself.  "  The  power  is  all  out 
of  my  body,  sir,  so  now  I  can  tell 
you." 

He  then  in  faint  tones  gave  this  cx- 

Slanation,  which  my  guilty  looks  con- 
rmcd.     "  One  of  his  bows  is  resined, 
sir,  —  that  one  is  the  tuner.     I  don't 
know    whether    you  have  observed, 
but  he  tunes  rather  louder  than  any 


318 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


two  of  tw.  O  dear,  it  is  coming 
again." 

"  Don't  l>e  a  fool,  now.  Yes,  I 
have  noticed  that." 

"  The  other  bjw,  Mr.  Chaplin,  sir, 
the  other  bow  is  soaped  —  well  soaped, 
sir,  for  orchestral  use.  Ugh !  ugh  ! " 

"  O,  the  varmint !  " 

Bates  continued.  "  You  take  a 
look  at  him,  —  you  see  him  fingering 
and  bowing  like  mad,  —  but  as  for 
sound,  you  know  what  a  greasy  bow 
is?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  I  don't  wonder 
at  your  laughing  —  ha !  ha !  ha !  O, 
the  thief,  —  when  I  think  of  his  dili- 
gent face,  and  him  shaking  his  right 
wrist  like  Viotti." 

"  Mind  your  pockets,  though ;  he 
knows  too  much." 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  speak.  "  I 
am  glad  you  like  the  idea,  sir,"  said 
I,  "  for  it  comes  from  you." 

"  How  can  you  say  that  ?  " 

"  What  did  you  tell  me  to  do  ?  " 

"I  didn't  tell  you  to  do  that.  I 
don't  remember  what  I  told  him, 
Bates,  —  not  to  the  letter." 

"  Told  me  to  play  inaudible ! ! ! " 

"Well,  I  never,"  said  Mr.  Chaplin. 

"  Those  were  your  words,  sir ;  they 
did  not  fall  to  the  ground,  you  see." 

My  position  in  this  orchestra,  and 
the  situations  that  arose  out  of  it, 
•were  meat  and  drink  to  my  two 
friends.  With  the  gentry,  whose  lives 
are  a  succession  of  amusements,  a  joke 
soon  wears  out,  no  doubt ;  but  we 
poor  fellows  can't  let  one  go  cheap. 
How  do  we  know  how  long  it  may 
be  before  Heaven  sends  us  another  ? 
A  joke  falling  among  us  is  like  a  rat 
in  a  kennel  of  terriers. 

At  intricate  passages  the  first  violin 
used  to  look  at  the  tenor,  and  then  at 
me,  and  wink,  and  they  both  swelled 
with  innocent  enjoyment,  till  at  last 
unknown  powers  of  gayety  budded  in 
Bates.  With  quizzing  his  friend  he 
learned  to  take  a  jest,  so  much  so  that 
one  night,  Mr.  Yates  being  funnier 
than  usual  if  possible,  a  single  horse- 
laugh suddenly  exploded  among  the 
fiddles.  This  was  Bates  gone  off  all 


in  a  moment  after  his  trigger  being 
pulled  so  many  years  to  no  purpose. 
Mr.  Yatcs  looked  down  with  gratilied 
surprise. 

"  Halloo  !  Brains  got  in  the  or- 
chestra ;  after  that,  anything  !  " 

But  do  you  think  it  was  fun  to  me 
all  this  ?  I  declare  I  suffered  the  tor- 
ture of  the  —  you  know  what.  I  never 
felt  safe  a  moment.  I  had  placed 
myself  next  to  an  old  fiddler  who  was 
deaf,  but  he  somehow  smelt  at  times 
that  I  was  shirking,  and  then  he  used 
to  cry,  "  Pull  out,  pull  out ;  you  don't 
pull  out." 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ?  "  I  used  to 
reply,  and  then  saw  away  like  mad  ; 
when,  so  connected  are  the  senses  of 
sight  and  hearing  apparently,  the  old 
fellow  used  to  smile  and  be  at  peace. 
He  saw  me  pull,  and  so  he  heard  me 
pull  out.  Then  sometimes  friends  of 
the  other  performers  would  be  in  the 
orchestra,  and  peep  over  me,  and  say 
civil  things,  and  I  wish  them  farther, 
civilities  and  all.  But  it  is  a  fact  that 
for  two  months  I  gesticulated  in  that 
orchestra  without  a  soul  finding  out 
that  I  was  not  suiting  the  note  to  the 
action. 

At  la^t  we  broke  up,  to  my  groat 
relief,  but  I  did  not  leave  the  theatre. 
Mr.  Widger,  Mr.  Yates's  dresser,  got 
me  a  place  behind  the  scenes  at  nine 
shillings  per  week. 

I  used  to  dress  Mr.  Reeve,  and  run 
for  his  brandies  and  waters,  which 
kept  me  on  the  trot,  and  do  odd  jobs. 

But  I  was  now  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance that  colored  all  my  life,  or 
the  cream  of  it.  My  time  was  come 
to  move  in  a  wider  circle  of  men  and 
things,  and  really  to  do  what  so  many 
fancy  they  have  done,  —  to  see  the 
world. 

In  the  month  of  April,  1828,  Mr. 
Yates,  theatrical  manager,  found  his 
nightly  receipts  fall  below  his  nightly 
expenses.  In  this  situation,  a  mana- 
ger falls  upon  one  of  two  things,  —  a 
spectacle  or  a  star.  Mr.  Yates  pre- 
ferred the  latter,  and  went  over  to 
Paris  and  engaged  Mademoiselle 
Djek. 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


319 


Mademoiselle  Djek  was  an  elephant 
of  great  size  and  unparalleled  sa- 
gacity. She  had  been  for  sonic  time 
performing  in  a  play  at  Franconi's, 
and  created  a  great  sensation  in 
Paris. 

Of  her  previous  history  little  is 
known.  But  she  was  first  landed 
from  the  East  in  England,  and  was 
shown  about  merely  as  an  elephant 
by  her  proprietor,  an  Italian  called 
Polito.  The  Frenchmen  first  found 
out  her  talent.  Her  present  owner 
was  a  M.  Huguct,  and  with  him  Mr. 
Yates  treated.  She  joined  the  Adel- 
phi  company  at  a  salary  of  £  40  a 
week  and  her  grub. 

There  was  great  expectation  in  the 
theatre  for  some  days.  The  play  in 
which  she  was  to  perform,  "  The  Ele- 
phant of  the  King  of  Siam,"  was  cast 
and  rehearsed  several  times ;  a  wooden 
house  was  built  for  her  at  the  back  of 
the  stage,  and  one  fine  afternoon, 
sure  enough,  she  arrived  with  all  her 
train,  one  or  two  of  each  nation,  viz., 
her  owner,  M.  Huguet  (French) ;  her 
principal  keeper,  Tom  Elliot  (Eng- 
lish) ;  her  subordinates,  —  Bernard, 
(French),  and  an  Italian  nicknamed 
Pippin.  She  arrived  at  the  stage 
door  in  Maiden  Lane,  and  soon  after 
the  messenger  was  sent  to  Mr.  Yates's 
house. 

"  Elephant 's  come,  sir." 

"  Well,  let  them  put  her  in  the 
place  built  for  her,  and  I  '11  come  and 
see  her." 

"  They  can't  do  that,  sir." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  La !  bless  you,  sir,  she  might 
get  her  foot  into  the  theatre,  but  how 
is  her  body  to  come  through  the  stage 
door  ?  Why,  she  is  almost  as  big  as 
the  house." 

Down  comes  Mr.  Yates,  and  there 
was  the  elephant  standing  all  across 
Maiden  Lane,  —  all  traffic  interrupted 
except  what  could  pass  under  her 
belly,  —  and  such  a  crowd,  —  my 
eye! 

Mr.  Yates  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  took  a  quiet  look  at  the 
state  of  affairs. 


"You  must  make  a  hole  in  the 
wall,"  said  he. 

Pickaxes  went  to  work,  and  made 
a  hole,  or  rather  a  frightful  chasm,  in 
the  theatre,  and  when  it  looked  about 
two  thirds  her  size,  Elliot  said, 
"  Stop  !  "  He  then  gave  her  a  sharp 
order,  and  the  first  specimen  we  saw 
of  her  cleverness  was  her  doubling 
herself  together  and  creeping  in 
through  that  hole,  bending  her  fore 
knees,  and  afterward  rising  and 
dragging  her  hind  legs  horizontally, 
and  she  disappeared  like  an  enor- 
rqous  mole  burrowing  into  the  thea- 
tre. 

Mademoiselle  Djek's  bills  were 
posted  all  over  the  town,  and  every- 
thing done  tQ  make  her  take,  and  on 
the  following  Tuesday  the  theatre  was 
pretty  well  filled  by  the  public ;  the 
manager  also  took  care  to  have  a 
strong  party  in  the  pit.  In  short, 
she  was  nursed  as  other  stars  are 
upon  their  debut. 

Night  came ;  all  was  anxiety  be- 
hind the  lights  and  expectation  in 
front. 

The  green  curtain  drew  up,  and 
Mr.  Yates  walked  on  in  black  dress- 
coat  and  white  kid  gloves,  like  a  pri- 
vate gentleman  just  landed  out  of  a 
bandbox  at  the  Queen's  ball.  He 
was  the  boy  to  talk  to  the  public; 
soft  sawder,  —  dignified  reproach,  — 
friendly  intercourse,  —  he  had  them 
all  at  his  fingers'  ends.  This  time  it 
was  the  easy  tone  of  refined  conver- 
sation upon  the  intelligent  creature 
he  was  privileged  to  introduce  to 
them.  I  remember  his  discourse  as 
well  as  if  it  was  yesterday. 

"  The  elephant,"  said  Mr.  Yates, 
"  is  a  marvel  of  Nature.  We  are 
now  to  have  the  pleasure  of  showing 
her  to  you  as  taking  her  place  in  art." 
Then  he  praised  the  wisdom  and 
beneficence  of  creation.  "  Among 
the  small  animals,  such  as  cats  and 
men,  there  is  to  be  found  such  a  thing 
as  spite ;  treachery  ditto,  and  love  of 
mischief,  and  even  cruelty  at  odd 
times  ;  but  here  is  a  creature  with  the 
power  to  pull  down  our  houses  about 


320 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


our  ears  like  Samson,  bnt  a  heart 
that  will  not  let  her  hurt  a  fly.  Prop- 
erly to  appreciate  her  moral  charac- 
ter, consider  what  a  thing  power  is  ; 
see  how  it  tries  us,  —  how  often  in 
history  it  has  turned  men  to  demons. 
The  elephant,"  added  he,  "  is  the 
friend  of  man  by  choice,  not  by  neces- 
sity or  instinct  ;  it  is  born  as  wild  as 
a  lion  or  buffalo,  but,  the  moment  an 
opportunity  arrives,  its  kindred  intel- 
ligence allies  it  to  man,  its  only  supe- 
rior or  equal  in  reasoning  power. 
We  are  about,"  said  Mr.  Yates,  "  to 
present  a  play  in  which  an  elephant 
will  act  a  part,  and  yet  act  but  her- 
self, for  the  intelligence  and  affec- 
tionate disposition  she  will  display 
on  these  boards  as  an,  actress  are 
"merely  her  own  private  and  domestic 
qualities.  Not  every  one  of  us  actors, 
gentlemen,  can  say  as  much." 

Then  there  was  a  laugh,  in  which 
Mr.  Yates  joined.  In  short,  Mr. 
Yates,  who  could  play  upon  the  pub- 
lic ear  better  than  some  fiddles  (I 
name  no  names),  made  his  debutante 
popular  before  ever  she  stepped  upon 
the  scene.  He  then  bowed  with  in- 
tense gratitude  to  the  audience  for 
the  attention  they  had  honored  him 
with,  retired  to  the  prompter's  side, 
and,  as  he  reached  it,  the  act  drop 
flew  up  and  the  play  began.  It  com- 
menced on  two  legs ;  the  elephant 
did  not  come  on  until  the  second 
scene  of  the  act 

The  drama  was  a  good  specimen 
of  its  kind.  It  was  a  story  of  some 
interest,  and  length,  and  variety,  and 
the  writer  had  been  sharp  enough 
not  to  make  the  elephant  too  common 
in  it.  She  came  on  only  three  or 
four  times,  and  always  at  a  nick  of 
time,  and  to  do  good  business,  —  as 
theatricals  say,  i.  e.  for  some  impor- 
tant purpose  in  the  story. 

A  king  of  Siam  had  lately  died, 
and  the  elephant  was  seen  taking  her 
part  in  the  funeral  obsequies.  She 
deposited  his  sceptre,  etc.,  in  the 
tomb  of  his  fathers,  and  was  seen  no 
more  in  that  act.  The  rightful  heir 
to  this  throne  was  a  young  prince,  to 


whom  the  elephant  belonged.  A 
usurper  opposed  him,  and  a  battle 
took  place ;  the  rightful  heir  was 
worsted  and  taken  prisoner ;  the 
usurper  condemned  him  to  be  thrown 
into  the  sea.  In  the  next  act,  this 
sentence  was  being  executed  :  four 
men  were  discovered  passing  through 
a  wood  carrying  no  end  of  a  box. 
Suddenly  a  terrific  roar  was  heard ; 
the  men  put  down  the  box  rather 
more  carefully  than  they  would  in 
real  life,  and  fled,  and  the  elephant 
walked  on  to  the  scene  alone  like  any 
other  actress.  She  smelt  about  the 
box,  and  presently  tore  it  open  witli 
her  proboscis,  and  there  was  her  mas- 
ter, the  rightful  heir,  but  in  a  sad  ex- 
hausted state.  When  the  good  soul 
sees  this,  what  does  she  do  but  walk 
to  the  other  side,  and  tear  down  the 
bough  of  a  fruit-tree  and  hand  it  to 
the  sufferer?  He  sucked  it,  and  it 
had  the  effect  of  stout  on  him :  it 
made  a  man  of  him,  and  they  marched 
away  together,  the  elephant  trumpet- 
ing to  show  her  satisfaction. 

In  the  next  act  the  rightful  heir's 
friends  were  discovered  behind  the 
bars  of  a  prison  at  a  height  from  the 
ground.  The  order  for  their  execu- 
tion arrived,  and  they  were  down  up- 
on their  luck  terribly.  In  marched 
the  elephant,  tore  out  the  iron  bars, 
and  squeezed  herself  against  the  wall, 
half  squatting  in  the  shape  of  a  tri- 
angle ;  so  then  the  prisoners  glided 
down  her  to  the  ground  slantendicu- 
lar  one  after  another. 

When  the  civil  war  had  lasted  long 
enough  to  sicken  both  sides,  and 
enough  widows  and  oqihans  had 
been  made,  the  Siamese  began  to  ask 
themselves,  But  what  is  it  all  about  ? 
The  next  thing  was,  they  said, 
"  What  asses  we  have  been  !  Was 
there  no  other  way  of  deciding  be- 
tween two  men  but  bleeding  the  whole 
tribe  \  "  Then  they  reflected  and 
said,  We  are  asses,  that  is  clear ;  but 
we  hear  there  is  one  animal  in  the 
nation  that  is  not  an  ass;  why,  of 
course,  then  she  is  the  one  to  decide 
our  dispute.  Accordingly,  a  grand 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


321 


assembly  was  held,  the  rival  claim- 
ants were  compelled  to  attend,  and 
the  elephant  was  led  in.  Then  the 
high-priest,  or  some  such  article,  hav- 
ing first  implored  Heaven  to  speak 
through  the  quadruped,  bade  her  de- 
cide according  to  justice.  No  soon- 
er were  the  words  out  of  his  mouth 
than  the  elephant  stretched  out  her 
proboscis,  seized  a  little  crown  that 
glittered  on  the  usurper's  head,  and, 
waving  it  gracefully  in  the  air,  de- 
posited it  gently  and  carefully  on  the 
brows  of  the  rightful  heir.  So  then 
there  was  a  rush  made  on  the  wrong- 
ful heir.  He  was  taken  out  guarded, 
and  warned  off  the  premises ;  the 
rightful  heir  mounted  the  throne,  and 
grinned  and  bowed  all  round,  —  the 
elephant  trumpeted, — Siam  hurrahed, 
—  Djck's  party  in  the  house  echoed 
the  sound,  and  down  came  the  cur- 
tain in  thunders  of  applause.  Though 
the  curtain  was  down,  the  applause 
continued  most  vehemently,  and  after 
a  while  a  cry  arose  at  the  back  of  the 
pit,  "  Elephant !  Elephant !  "  That 
part  of  the  audience  that  had  paid  at 
the  door  laughed  at  this,  but  their 
laughter  turned  to  curiosity  when,  in 
answer  to  the  cry,  the  curtain  was 
raised,  and  the  stage  discovered  empty. 
Curiosity  in  turn  gave  way  to  sur- 
prise, for  the  elephant  walked  on  from 
the  third  grooves  alone,  and  came 
slap  down  to  the  float.  At  this,  the 
astonished  public  literally  roared  at 
her.  But  how  can  I  describe  the  ef- 
fect, the  amazement,  when,  in  return 
for  the  compliment,  the  debutante 
slowly  bent  her  knees  and  courtesied 
twice  to  the  British  public,  and  then 
retired  backwards  as  the  curtain  once 
more  fell  1  People  looked  at  one 
another,  and  seemed  to  need  to  read 
in  their  neighbors'  eyes  whether  such 
a  thing  was  real ;  and  then  followed 
that  buzz  which  tells  the  knowing 
ones  behind  the  curtain  that  the  nail 
has  gone  home  ;  that  the  theatre  will 
be  crammed  to  the  ceiling  to-morrow 
night,  and  perhaps  for  eighty  nights 
after. 

Mr.  Yates  fed  Mademoiselle  Djek 
14* 


with  his  own  hand  that  night,  crying, 
"  O  you  duck  !  " 

The  fortunes  of  the  Adelphi  rose 
from  that  hour,  —  full  houses  without 
intermission. 

Mr.  Yates  shortened  his  introduc- 
tory address,  and  used  to  make  it  a 
brief,  neat,  and,  I  think,  elegant  eu- 
logy of  her  gentleness  and  affection- 
ate disposition  ;  her  talent  "  the  pub- 
lic are  here  to  judge  for  themselves," 
said  Mr.  Yates,  and  exit  P.  S. 

A  theatre  is  a  little  world,  and 
Djek  soon  became  the  hero  of  ours. 
Everybody  must  have  a  passing  peep 
at  the  star  that  was  keeping  the  the- 
atre open  all  summer,  and  providing 
bread  for  a  score  or  two  of  families 
connected  with  it.  Of  course,  a  mind 
like  mine  was  not  among  the  least 
inquisitive.  But  her  head-keeper, 
Tom  Elliot,  a  surly  fellow,  repulsed 
our  attempts  to  scrape  acquaintance. 
"  Mind  your  business,  and  I  '11  mind 
mine,"  was  his  chant.  He  seemed 
to  be  wonderfully  jealous  of  her.  He 
could  not  forbid  Mr.  Yates  to  visit 
her,  as  he  did  us,  but  he  always  in- 
sisted on  being  one  of  the  party  even 
then.  He  puzzled  us ;  but  the  strong- 
est impression  he  gave  us  was  that 
he  was  jealous  of  her,  —  afraid  that 
she  would  get  as  fond  of  some  others 
as  of  him,  and  so  another  man  might 
be  able  to  work  her,  and  his  own 
nose  lose  a  joint,  as  the  saying  .is. 
Later  on  we  learned  To  put  a  different 
interpretation  on  his  conduct.  Pip- 
pin the  Italian,  and  Bernard  the 
Frenchman,  used  to  serve  her  with 
straw  and  water,  etc.,  but  it  was  quite 
a  different  thing  from  Elliot.  They 
were  like  a  fine  lady's  grooms  and 
running  footmen,  but  Elliot  was  her 
body-servant,  groom  of  the  bedcham- 
ber, or  v/hat  not.  He  iised  always 
to  sleep  in  the  straw  close  to  her. 
Sometimes,  when  he  was  drunk,  he 
would  roll  in  between  her  legs  ;  and 
if  she  had  not  been  more  careful  of 
him  than  any  other  animal  ever  was 
(especially  himself),  she  must  have 
crushed  him  to  death  three  nights  in 
the  week.  Next  to  Elliot,  but  a  long 
u 


322 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


way  below  him,  M.  Huguet  seemed 
her  favorite.  He  used  to  come  into 
her  box,  and  caress  her,  and  feed  her, 
and  make  much  of  her ;  but  she  nev- 
er went  on  the  stage  without  Elliot 
in  sight ;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  all  she 
did  upon  our  stage  was  done  at  a 
word  of  command  given  then  and 
there  at  the  side  by  this  man  and  no 
other,  —  going  down  to  the  float, 
courtesying,  and  all. 

Being  mightily  curious  to  know 
how  he  had  gained  such  influence 
with  her,  I  made  several  attempts  to 
sound  him,  but,  drunk  or  sober,  he 
was  equally  unfathomable  on  this 
point. 

I  then  endeavored  to  slake  my  cu- 
riosity at  No.  2.  I  made  bold  to  ask 
M.  Huguet  how  he  had  won  her  af- 
fections. The  Frenchman  was  as 
communicative  as  the  native  was  re- 
served. He  broke  plenty  of  English 
over  me.  It  came  to  this,  that  the 
strongest  feeling  of  an  elephant  was 
gratitude,  and  that  he  had  worked  on 
this  for  years ;  was  always  kind  to 
her,  and  seldom  approached  her  with- 
out giving  her  lumps  of  sugar,  —  car- 
ried a  pocketful  on  purpose.  This 
tallied  with  what  I  had  heard  and 
read  of  an  elephant ;  still  the  problem 
remained,  Why  is  she  fonder  still  of 
this  Tom  Elliot,  whose  manner  is  not 
ingratiating,  and  who  never  speaks 
to  her  but  in  a  harsh,  severe  voice  ? 

She  stood  mylfriend,  any  way.  A 
good  many  new  supers  were  engaged 
to  play  with  her,  and  I  was  set  over 
these,  looked  out  their  dresses,  and 
went  on  with  them  and  her  as  a  slave  : 
nine  shillings  a  week  for  this  was 
added  to  my  other  nine  which  I  drew 
for  dressing  an  actor  or  two  of  the 
higher  class. 

The  more  I  was  about  her,  the 
more  I  felt  that  we  were  not  at  the 
bottom  of  this  quadruped,  nor  even 
of  her  bipeds.  There  were  gestures 
and  glances  and  shrugs  always  pass- 
ing to  and  fro  among  them. 

One  day  at  the  rehearsal  of  a  farce 
there  was  no  Mr.  Yates.  Somebody 
inquired  loudly  for  him. 


" Hush  !  "  says  another;  "  have  n't 
yon  heard  1  " 

"  No." 

"  You  must  n't  talk  of  it  out  of 
doors." 

"  No ! " 

"  Half  killed  by  the  elephant  this 
morning." 

It  seems  he  was  feeding  and  coax- 
ing her,  as  he  had  often  done  before, 
when  all  in  a  moment  she  laid  hold  of 
him  with  her  trunk  and  gave  him  a 
squeeze.  He  lay  in  bed  six  weeks 
witii  it,  and  there  was  nobody  to  de- 
liver her  eulogy  at  night.  Elliot  was 
at  the  other  end  of  the  stage  when 
the  accident  happened.  He  heard 
Mr.  Yates  cry  out,  and  ran  in,  and 
the  elephant  let  Mr.  Yates  go  the  mo- 
ment she  saw  him. 

We  questioned  Elliot.  We  might 
as  well  have  cross-examined  the  Mon- 
ument. Then  I  inquired  of  M. 
Huguet  what  this  meant.  That  gen- 
tleman explained  to  me  thatDjek  had 
miscalculated  her  strength  ;  that  she 
wanted  to  caress  so  kind  a  manager, 
who  was  always  feeding  and  court- 
ing her,  and  had  embraced  him  too 
warmly. 

The  play  went  on,  and  the  ele- 
phant's reputation  increased.  But 
her  popularity  was  destined  to  receive 
a  shock  as  far  as  we  little  ones  behind 
the  curtain  were  concerned. 

One  day  while  Pippin  was  spread- 
ing her  straw,  she  knocked  him  down 
with  her  trunk,  and,  pressing  her 
tooth  against  him,  bored  two  frightful 
holes  in  his  skull  before  Elliot  could 
interfere.  Pippin  was  carried  to  St. 
George's  Hospital  and  we  began  to 
look  in  one  another's  faces. 

Pippin's  situation  was  in  the  mar- 
ket. 

One  or  two  declined  it.  It  came 
down  to  me.  I  reflected,  and  accept- 
ed it :  another  nine  shillings ;  total, 
twenty-seven  shillings. 

That  night  two  supers  turned  tail. 
An  actress  also,  whose  name  I  have 
forgotten,  refused  to  go  on  with  her. 
"  I  was  not  engaged  to  play  with  a 
brute,"  said  this  lady, "and  1  won't." 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


323 


Others  went  on  as  usual,  but  were  not 
so  sweet  on  it  as  before.  The  rightful 
heir  lost  all  relish  for  his  part,  and, 
above  all,  when  his  turn  came  to  be 
preserved  from  harm  by  her,  I  used 
to  hear  him  crying  out  of  the  box 
to  Elliot,  "  Are  you  there  ?  are  you 
sure  you  are  there  "?  "  and,  when  she 
tore  open  his  box,  Garrick  never  act- 
ed better  than  this  one  used  to  now, 
for  you  see  his  cue  was  to  exhibit  fear 
and  exhaustion,  and  he  did  both  to 
the  life,  because  for  the  last  five  min- 
utes he  had  been  thinking,  "  0  dear ! 
O  dear !  suppose  she  should  do  the 
foot  business  on  my  box  instead  of  the 
proboscis  business." 

These,  however,  were  vain  fears. 
She  made  no  mistake  before  the  public. 

Nothing  lasts  forever  in  this  world, 
and  the  time  came  that  she  ceased  to 
fill  the  house.  Then  Mr.  Yatcs  re- 
engaged her  for  the  provinces,  and, 
having  agreed  with  the  country  man- 
agers, sent  her  down  to  Bath  and 
Bristol  first.  He  had  a  good  opinion 
of  me,  and  asked  me  to  go  with  her  and 
watch  his  interests.  I  should  not  cer- 
tainly have  applied  for  the  place,  but 
it  was  not  easy  to  say  no  to  Mr.  Yates, 
and  I  felt  I  owed  him  some  reparation 
for  the  wrong  I  had  done  that  great 
artist  in  accompanying  his  voice  with 
my  gestures. 

In  short,  we  started,  Djek,  Elliot, 
Bernard,  I,  and  Pippin,  on  foot  (he 
was  just  out  of  St.  George's).  Messrs. 
Huguet  and  Yatcs  rolled  in  their  car- 
riage to  meet  us  at  the  principal 
towns  where  we  played. 

As  we  could  not  afford  to  make 
her  common,  our  walking  was  all 
night-work,  and  introduced  me  to  a 
rough  life. 

The  average  of  night  weather  is 
wetter  and  windier  than  day,  and 
many  a  vile  night  we  tramped  through 
when  wise  men  were  abed;  and  we 
never  knew  for  certain  where  we 
should  pass  the  night,  for  it  depended 
on  Djek.  She  was  so  enormous  that 
half  the  inns  could  not  find  us  a 
place  big  enough  for  her.  Our  first 
evening  stroll  was  to  Bath  and  Bris- 


tol ;  thence  we  crossed'  to  Dublin, 
thence  we  returned  to  Plymouth. 
\Ve  walked  from  Plymouth  to  Liver- 
pool, playing  with  good  success  at  all 
these  places.  At  Liverpool  she  laid 
hold  of  Bernard  and  would  have  set- 
tled his  hash,  but  Elliot  came  between 
them. 

That  same  afternoon  in  walks  a 
young  gentleman  dressed  in  the 
height  of  Parisian  fashion, — glossy 
hat,  satin  tie,  trousers  puckered  at  the 
haunches,  —  sprucer  than  any  poor 
Englishman  will  be  while  the  world 
lasts,  and  who  was  it  but  Mons.  Ber- 
nard come  to  take  leave  ?  We  endeav- 
ored to  dissuade  him.  He  smiled  and 
shook  his  head,  treated  us,  flattered  us, 
and  showed  us  his  preparations  for 
France. 

All  that  day  and  the  next  he  saun- 
tered about  us  dressed  like  a  gentle- 
man, with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  an  ostentatious  neglect  of  his  late 
affectionate  charge.  Before  he  left  he 
invited  me  to  drink  something  at  his 
expense,  and  was  good  enough  to  say  I 
was  what  he  most  regretted  leaving. 

"  Then  why  go  ?  "  said  I. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  mon  pauvre  gar- 
con,"  said  Mons.  Bernard.  "  We  old 
hands  have  all  got  our  orders  to  say 
she  is  a  duck.  Ah  !  yon  have  found 
that  out  of  yourself.  "Well,  now,  as  I 
have  done  with  her,  I  will  tell  you  a 
part  of  her  character,  for  I  know  her 
well.  Once  she  injures  you  she  can 
never  forgive  you.  So  long  as  she  has 
never  hurt  you  there 's  a  fair  chance 
she  never  will.  I  have  been  about  her 
for  years,  and  she  never  molested  me 
till  yesterday.  But,  if  she  once  attacks 
a  man,  that  man's  death-warrant  is 
signed.  I  can't  altogether  account  for 
it,  but  trust  my  experience,  it  is  so. 
I  would  have  stayed  with  you  all  my 
life  if  she  had  not  shown  me  my  fate, 
but  not  now.  Merci !  I  have  a  wife 
and  two  children  in  France.  I  have 
saved  some  money  out  of  her.  I  re- 
turn to  the  bosom  of  my  family ;  and 
if  Pippin  stays  with  her  after  the  hint 
she  gave  him  in  London,  why,  you 
will  see  the  death  of  Pippin,  my  lad, 


324 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


voila  tout,  that  is  if  you  don't  go  first. 
Qu'est  que  ca  te  fait  a  la  tin  (  tu  es 
garden  toi  —  buvons  !  " 

The  next  day  he  left  us,  and  left  me 
sad  for  one.  The  quiet  determination 
with  which  he  acted  upon  positive  ex- 
perience of  her  was  enough  to  make  a 
man  thoughtful ;  and  then  Bernard 
was  the  flower  of  us  :  he  was  the  drop 
of  mirth  and  gayety  in  our  iron  cup. 
He  was  a  pure,  unadulterated  French- 
man ;  and,  to  be  just,  where  can  you 
find  anything  so  delightful  as  a 
Frenchman  — of  the  right  sort  ? 

He  fluttered  home  singing, 
"  LCS  doux  yeux  de  ma  brunet— te, 
Tout — e    mignonett — e  —  tout — e  —  gentil- 
lett— e." 

and  left  us  all  in  black. 

God  bless  you,  my  merry  fellow. 
I  hope  yon  found  your  children 
healthy,  and  your  brunette  true,  and 
your  friends  alive,  and  that  the  world 
is  just  to  you,  and  smiles  on  you,  as 
you  do  on  it,  and  did  on  us. 

From  Liverpool  we  wa!  ke<l  to  Glas- 
gow, from  Glasgow  to  Edinburgh,  and 
from  Edinburgh  on  a  cold  starry  mid- 
night we  started  for  Newcastle. 

In  this  interval  of  business  let  me 
paint  you  my  companions  Pippin  and 
Elliot.  The  reader  is  entitled  to  this, 
for  there  must  have  b'een  something 
out  of  the  common  in  their  looks, 
since  I  was  within  an  ace  of  being 
killed  along  of  the  Italian's  face,  and 
was  imprisoned  four  days  through  the 
Englishman's  mug. 

The  Italian  whom  we  know  by  the 
nickname  of  Pippin  was  a  man  of  im- 
mense stature  and  athletic  mould. 
His  face,  once  seen,  would  never  be 
forgotten.  His  skin,  almost  as  swar- 
thy as  Othello's,  was  set  off  by  daz- 
zling ivory  teeth,  and  lighted  by  two 
glorious  large  eyes,  black  as  jet,  bril- 
liant as  diamonds  ;  the  orbs  of  black 
lightning  gleamed  from  beneath  eye- 
brows that  many  a  dandy  would  have 
bought  for  mustaches  at  a  high  valu- 
ation. A  nose  like  a  reaping-hook 
completed  him.  Perch  him  on  a  tol- 
erable-sized rock,  and  there  you  had 
a  black  eagle. 


As  if  this  was  not  enough,  Pippin 
would  always  wear  a  conical  hat ; 
and,  had  he  but  stepped  upon  the 
stage  jn  "  Masanicllo  "  or  the  like,  all 
the  other  brigands  would  have  sunk 
down  to  a  rural  police  by  the  side  of 
our  man.  But  now  comes  the  ab- 
surdity. His  inside  was  not  different 
from  his  out ;  it  was  the  exact  oppo- 
site. You  might  turn  over  twenty 
thousand  bullet  heads  and  bolus  eyes 
before  you  could  find  one  man  so 
thoroughly  harmless  as  this  thunder- 
ing brigand.  He  was  just  a  pet,  a 
universal  pet  of  all  the  men  and  wo- 
men that  came  near  him.  He  had  the 
disposition  of  a  dove  and  the  heart  of 
a  hare.  He  was  a  lamb  in  wolfs 
clothing. 

My  next  portrait  is  not  so  pleasing. 

A    MAX    TURNED    BRUTE. 

Some  ten  years  before  this,  a  fine 
stout  young  English  rustic  entered 
the  service  of  Mademoiselle  Djek. 
He  was  a  model  for  bone  and  muscle, 
and  had  two  cheeks  like  roses.  When 
he  first  went  to  Paris  he  was  looked 
on  as  a  curiosity  there.  People  used 
to  come  to  Djck's  stable  to  see  her, 
and  Elliot,  the  young  English  Samson. 
Just  ten  years  after  this  young  Elliot 
had  got  to  be  called  "  old  Elliot." 
His  face  was  not  only  pale,  it  was  col- 
orless ;  it  was  the  face  of  a  walking 
corpse.  This  came  of  ten  years'  bran- 
dy and  brute.  I  have  often  asked 
people  to  guess  the  man's  age,  and 
they  always  guessed  sixty,  sixty-five, 
or  seventy,  —  oftenest  the  latter. 

He  was  thirty-five, — not  a  day 
more. 

This  man's  mind  had  come  down 
along  with  his  body.  He  understood 
nothing  but  elephant ;  he  seldom 
talked,  and  then  nothing  but  ele- 
phant. He  was  an  elephant-man. 
I  will  give  you  an  instance  which  I 
always  thought  curious. 

An  elephant,  you  may  have  olv 
served,  cannot  stand  quite  still.  Tha 
great  weight  of  its  head  causes  a 
nodding  movement,  which  is  perpet- 
ual when  the  crpnture  stands  erect. 
Well,  this  Tom  Elliot  when  he  stood 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


325 


up,  used  always  to  have  one  foot  ad- 
vanced, and  his  eyes  half  closed,  and 
his  head  niddlc-nodding  like  an  ele- 
phant all  the  time ;  and,  with  it  all, 
such  a  presence  of  brute  and  ahsencc 
of  soul  in  his  mug,  enough  to  give 
a  thoughtful  man  some  very  queer 
ideas  about  man  and  beast. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MY  office  in  this  trip  was  merely 
to  contract  for  the  elephant's  food  at 
the  various  places ;  but  I  was  getting 
older  and  shrewder,  and  more  design- 
ing than  I  used  to  be,  and  I  was 
quite  keen  enough  to  see  in  this  ele- 
phant tlie  means  of  bettering  my  for- 
tunes, if  I  could  but  make  friends  with 
her.  But  how  to  do  this  ?  She  was 
like  a  coquette .  strange  admirers 
welcome  ;  but  when  you  had  courted 
her  awhile  she  got  tired  of  you,  and 
then  nothing  short  of  your  demise  sat- 
isfied her  caprice.  Her  heart  seemed 
inaccessible  except  to  this  brute  El- 
liot, and  he,  drunk  or  sober,  guarded 
the  secret  of  his  fascination  by  some 
instinct,  for  reason  he  possessed  in  a 
very  small  degree. 

1  played  the  spy  on  quadruped  and 
biped,  and  I  found  out  the  fact,  but 
the  reason  beat  me.  I  saw  that  she 
was  more  tenderly  careful  of  him  than 
a  mother  of  her  child.  I  saw  him 
roll  down  Ftupid  drunk  under  her 
belly,  and  I  saw  her  lift  first  one  foot 
and  then  the  other,  and  draw  them 
slowly  and  carefully  back,  trembling 
with  fear  lest  she  might  make  a  mis- 
take and  hurt  him. 

But  why  she  was  a  mother  to  him 
and  a  step-mother  to  the  rest  of  us, 
that  I  could  not  learn. 

One  day,  -between  Plymouth  and 
Liverpool,  having  left  Elliot  and  her 
together,  I  happened  to  return,  and  I 
found  the  elephant  alone  and  in  a 
state  of  excitement,  and  locking  in  I 
observed  some  blood  upor.  the  straw. 

His  turn  has  come  at  last,  ^as  my 


first  notion  ;  but,  looking  round,  there 
was  Elliot  behind  me. 

"I  was  afraid  sho  had  tried  it  on 
with  you,"  I  said. 

"Who?"  ' 

"  The  elephant." 

Elliot's  face  was  not  generally  ex- 
pressive, but  the  look  of  silent  scorn 
he  gave  me  at  the  idea  of  the  elephant 
attacking  him  was  worth  seeing. 
The  brute  knew  something  I  did  not 
know,  and  could  not  find  out ;  and 
from  this  one  piece  of  knowledge  he 
looked  down  upon  me  wi;h  a  scrt  of 
contempt  that  set  all  the  Seven  Dials' 
blood  on  fire. 

"  I  will  bottom  this,"  said  I,  "  if  I 
die  for  it." 

My  plan  now  was  to  feed  Djck 
every  day  with  my  own  hand,  but 
never  to  go  near  her  without  Elliot 
at  my  very  side  and  in  front  of  the 
elephant. 

This  was  my  first  step. 

We  were  now  drawing  toward 
Newcastle,  and  had  to  lie  at  Morpeth, 
where  we  arrived  late,-  and  found  Mr. 
Yates  and  M.  Hnguet,  who  had  come 
out  from  Newcastle  to  meet  us ;  and 
at  this  place  I  determined  on  a  new 
move  which  I  had  long  meditated. 

Elliot,  I  reflected,  always  slept 
with  the  elephant.  None  of  the 
other  men  had  ever  done  this.  Now 
might  there  not  be  some  mngic  in 
this  unbroken  familiarity  between  the 
two  animals  ? 

Accordingly,  at  Morpeth,  I  pre- 
tended there  was  no  bed  vacant  in 
the  inn,  and  asked  Elliot  to  let  me  lie 
beside  him :  he  grunted  an  ungracious 
assent. 

Not  to  overdo  it  at  first,  I  got 
Elliot  between  me  and  Djek,  so  that 
if  she  was  offended  at  my  intrusion 
she  must  pass  over  her  darling  to  re- 
sent it.  We  had  tramped  a  good 
many  miles,  and  were  soon  fast 
asleep. 

About  two  in  the  morning  I  was 
awoke  by  a  shout  and  a  crunching, 
and  felt"  myself  dropping  into  the 
straw  out  of  the  elephant's  mouth. 
She  had  stretched  her  proboscis  over 


326 


JACK   OF  ALL  TRADES 


him,  —  had  taken  me  up  so  delicately 
that  I  felt  nothing,  and  when  Elliot 
shouted  I  was  in  her  mouth.  At  his 
voice,  that  rung  in  my  ears  like  the 
last  trumpet,  she  dropped  me  like  a 
hot  potato.  I  rolled  out  of  the  straw, 
giving  tongue  a  good  one,  and  ran 
out  of  the  shed.  I  had  no  sooner  got 
to  the  inn  than  I  felt  a  sickening  pain 
in  my  shoulder  and  fainted  away. 

Her  huge  tooth  had  gone  into  my 
shoulder  like  a  wedge.  It  was  my- 
self I  had  heard  being  crunched. 

They  did  what  they  could  for  me, 
and  I  soon  came  to.  When  I  re- 
covered my  senses  I  was  seized  with 
vomiting ;  but  at  last  all  violent 
symptoms  abated,  and  I  began  to 
suffer  great  pain  in  the  injured  part, 
and  did  suffer  for  six  weeks. 

And  so  I  scraped  clear.  Somehow 
or  other,  Elliot  was  not  drunk,  or 
nothing  could  have  saved  me.  For  a 
second  wonder,  he,  who  was  a  heavy 
sleeper,  woke  at  the  very  slight  noise 
she  made  eating  me :  a  moment  later, 
and  nothing  could  have  saved  me.  I 
use  too  many  words,  —  suppose  she 
had  eaten  me,  —  what  then  ? 

They  told  Mr.  Yates  at  breakfast, 
and  he  sent  for  me,  and  advised  me 
to  lie  quiet  at  Morpeth  till  the  fever 
of  the  wound  should  be  off  me ;  but  I 
refused.  She  was  to  start  at  ten,  and 
I  told  him  I  should  start  with  her. 

Running  from  grim  death  like  that, 
I  had  left  my  shoes  behind  in  the 
shed,  and  M.  Huguet  sent  his  servant 
Baptiste,  an  Italian,  for  them.  . 

Mr.  Yates  then  asked  me  for  all  the 
particulars,  and,  while  I  was  telling 
him  and  M.  Huguet,  we  heard  a  com- 
motion in  the  street,  and  saw  people 
running,  and  presently  one  of  the 
waiters  ran  in  and  cried  :  — 

"  The  elephant  has  killed  a  man, 
or  near  it." 

Mr.  Yates  laughed  and  said :  — 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that ;  for  here 
is  the  man." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  the  waiter,  "  it  is 
not  him  ;  it  is  one  of  the  foreigners." 

Mr.  Yates  started  up  all  trembling. 
He  ran  to  the  stable.  I  followed  him 


as  I  was,  and  there  we  saw  a  sight  to 
make  our  blood  run  cold.  "On  the 
corn-bin  lay  poor  Baptiste  crushed 
into  a  mummy.  How  it  happened 
there  was  no  means  of  knowing  ;  but, 
no  doubt,  while  he  was  groping  in 
the  straw  for  my  wretched  shoes,  she 
struck  him  with  her  trunk,  perhaps 
more  than  once ;  his  breast-bones 
were  broken  to  chips,  and  every  time 
he  breathed,  which  by  God's  mercy 
was  not  many  minutes,  the  man's 
whole  chest-frame  puffed  out  like  a 
bladder  with  the  action  of  his  lungs  : 
it  was  too  horrible  to  look  at. 

Elliot  had  run  at  Baptistc's  cry, 
but  too  late  to  save  his  life  this  time. 
He  had  drawn  the  man  out  of  the 
straw  as  she  was  about  to  pound  him 
to  a  jelly,  and  there  the  poor  soul  lay 
on  the  corn-bin,  and  by  his  side  lay 
the  things  he  had  died  for,  —  two  old 
shoes.  Elliot  had  found  them  in  the 
straw,  and  put  them  there  of  all  places 
in  the  world. 

By  this  time  all  Morpeth  was  out. 
They  besieged  the  doors  and  vowed 
death  to  the  elephant.  M.  Hugnet 
became  greatly  alarmed.  He  could 
spare  Baptiste,  but  he  could  not  sparo 
Djck.  He  got  Mr.  Yates  to  pacify 
the  people.  "  Tell  them  something," 
said  he. 

"  What  on  earth  can  I  say  for  her 
over  that  man's  bleeding  body  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Yates.  "  Curse  her  !  would  to 
God  I  had  never  seen  her  !  " 

"  Tell  them  he  used  her  cruel," 
said  M.  Huguet.  "  I  have  brought 
her  off  with  that  before  now." 

Well,  my  sickness  came  on  again, 
partly,  no  doubt,  by  the  sight  and  the 
remorse,  and  I  was  got  to  bed,  and 
lay  there  some  days ;  so  I  did  not  see 
all  that  passed,  but  I  heard  some,  and 
1  know  the  rest  by  instinct  now. 

Half  an  hour  after  breakfast-time 
Baptiste  died.  On  this  the  elephant 
was  detained  by  the  authorities,  and  a 
coroner's  inquest  was  summoned,  and 
sat  in  the  shambles  on  the  victim, 
with  the  butcheress  looking  on  at  the 
proceedings. 

Pippiu  told  me  she  took  off  a  jury- 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


327 


man's  hat  during  the  investigation, 
wavefl  it  triumphantly  in  the  air,  and 
placed  it  cleverly  on  her  favorite's 
head,  old  Tom. 

At  this  inquest  two  or  three  persons 
deposed  on  oath  that  the  deceased  had 
ill  used  her  more  than  once  in 
France ;  in  particular,  that  he  had 
run  a  pitchfork  into  her  two  years 
ago ;  that  he  had  been  remonstrated 
with,  but  in  vain ;  unfortunately,  she 
had  recognized  him  at  once,  and 
killed  him  out  of  revenge  for  past 
cruelty,  or  to  save  herself  from  fresh 
outrages. 

This  cooled  the  ardor  against  her. 
Some  even  took  part  with  her  against 
the  man. 

"  Run  a  pitchfork  into  an  elephant ! 
O,  for  shame  !  no  wonder  she  killed 
him  at  last.  How  good  of  her  not 
to  kill  him  then  and  there,  —  what  for- 
bearance, —  forgave  it  for  two  years, 
ye  see." 

There  is  a  fixed  opinion  among  men 
that  an  elephant  is  a  good  kind  crea- 
ture. The  opinion  is  fed  by  the  pro- 
prietors of  elephants,  who  must  nurse 
the  notion  or  lose  their  customers,  and 
so  a  set  tale  is  always  ready  to  clear 
the  guilty  and  criminate  the  sufferer; 
and  this  tale  is  greedily  swallowed  by 
the  public.  You  will  hear  and  read 
many  such  talcs  in  the  papers  before 
you  die.  Every  such  tale  is  a  lie. 

How  curiously  things  happen ! 
Last  year,  i.  e.  more  than  twenty 
years  after  this  event,  my  little  girl 
went  for  a  pound  of  butter  to  Newport 
Street.  She  brought  it  wrapped  up 
in  a  scrap  of  a  very  old  newspaper ; 
in  unrolling  it,  my  eye,  by  mere  acci- 
dent, fell  upon  these  words  :  "  An  in- 
quest." I  had  no  sooner  read  the 
paragraph  than  I  put  the  scrap  of  pa- 
per away  in  my  desk :  it  lies  before 
me  now,  and  I  am  copying  it. 

"  An  inquest  was  held  at  the  Phoe- 
nix Inn,  Morpeth,  on  the  27th  ultimo, 
on  view  of  the  body  of  an  Italian 
named  Baptiste  Bernard,  who  was  one 
of  the  attendants  on  the  female  ele- 
phant which  lately  performed  at  the 
Adelphi.  It  appeared  from  the  evi- 


dence that  the  man  had  stabbed  the 
elephant  in  the  trunk  witli  a  pitchfork 
about  two  years  ago  while  in  a  state 
of  intoxication,  and  that  on  the  Tues- 
day previous  to  the  inquest  the  animal 
caught  hold  of  him  with  her  trunk 
and  did  him  so  much  injury  that  he 
died  in  a  few  hours.  Verdict,  died 
from  the  wounds  and  bruises  received 
from  the  trunk  of  an  elephant.  Dco- 
dand,  5s." 

Well,  this  has  gone  all  abroad,  for 
print  travels  like  wind  ;  and  it  is  not 
fair  to  the  friends  and  the  memory 
of  this  Baptiste  Bernard  to  print  that 
he  died  by  his  own  cruelty,  or  fault, 
or  folly,  so  take  my  deposition,  and 
carry  it  to  Milan,  his  native  city. 

I  declare  upon  oath  that  the  above 
is  a  lie  ;  that  the  man  was  never  an 
attendant  upon  the  female  elephant ; 
he  was  an  attendant  on  the  female 
Huguet ;  for  he  was  that  lady's 
footman.  His  first  introduction  to 
Mademoiselle  Djek  was  her  killing 
him,  and  he  died,  not  by  any  fault 
of  his  own,  but  by  the  will  of  God 
and  through  ignorance  of  the  real 
nature  of  the  fuU-yroum  elephant,  the 
cunningcst,  most  treacherous  and 
bloodthirsty  beast  that  ever  played 
the  butcher  among  mankind. 

What  men  speak  dissolves  in  the 
air,  what  they  print  stands  fast  and 
will  look  them  in  the  face  to  all  eter- 
nity. I  print  the  truth  about  this 
man's  death  ;  so  help  me  God. 

Business  is  business.  As  soon  as 
we  had  got  the  inquest  over  and 
stamped  the  lie  current,  hid  the  truth 
and  buried  the  man,  we  marched 
south  and  played  our  little  play  at 
Newcastle. 

Dcodand  for  a  human  soul  sent  by 
murder  to  its  account,  five  bob. 

After  Newcastle  we  walked  to  York, 
and  thence  to  Manchester.  I  crept 
along  thoroughly  crestfallen.  Months 
and  months  I  had  watched,  and  spied, 
and  tried  to  pluck  out  the  heart  of 
this  Tom  Elliot's  mystery ;  I  had 
failed.  Months  and  months  I  had 
tried  to  gain  some  influence  over 
Djek;  I  had  failed.  But  for  Elliot, 


328 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


it  was  clear  I  should  not  live  a  single 
day  within  reach  of  her  trunk ;  this 
brute  was  my  superior.  I  was  com- 
pelled to  look  up  to  him,  and  I  did 
look  up  to  him. 

As  I  tramped  sulkily  along,  my 
smarting  shoulder  reminded  me  that 
in  elephant,  as  in  everything  else  I 
had  tried,  I  was  Jack,  not  master. 

The  proprietors   had   their   cause 
of  discontent  too.     We  had  silenced  < 
the  law,   but  we   could   not  silence  : 
opinion.      Somehow  suspicion  hung  J 
about  her  in  the  very   air  wherever  I 
she  went.    She  never  throve  in  the 
English  provinces  after  the  Morpeth 
job,    and,   finding    this,    Mr.    Yates 
said  :  "  0,  hang  her,  she  has  lost  her 
character    here;    send   her  to  Amer- 
ica."    So  he  and  M.  Huguet  joined 
partnership  and  took  this  new  spec- 
ulation on  their  shoulders.     America 
was  even  in  that  day   a   great    card 
if   you  went    with   an    English    or 
French  reputation. 

I  had  been  thinking  of  leaving 
her  and  her  old  Tom  in  despair ; 
but,  now  that  other  dangers  and  in- 
conveniences were  to  be  endured  be- 
sides her  and  her  tnmk,  by  some 
strange  freak  of  human  nature,  or 
by  fate,  I  began  to  cling  to  her  like 
a  limpet  to  a  rock  the  more  you  pull 
at  him. 

Mr.  Yates  dissuaded  me.  "  Have 
nothing  to  do  with  her,  Jack;  she 
will  serve  you  like  all  the  rest. 
Stay  at  home,  and  I  '11  find  something 
for  you  in  the  theatre." 

I   thought   a   great   deal   of  Mr. 
Yates   for  this,  for  he  was   speaking  | 
against  his  own  interest     I   was   a 
faithful  servant  to  him,  and  he  need- 
ed one  about   her.      Many  a   five-  j 
pound    note    I  had    saved    him    al- 
ready,  and  well  he  deserved  it  at  my 
hands. 

"  No,  sir,"  I  said,  "  I  shall  be  of 
use,  and  I  can't  bear  to  be  nonplushed 
by  two  brutes  like  Elliot  and  her.  I 
have  begun  to  study  her,  and  I  must 
go  on  to  the  word  '  finis '  !  " 

Messrs.  Yates  and  Huguet  insured 
the  elephant  for  £  20,000,  and  sent  us 


all  to  sea  together  in  the  middle  of 
November,  a  pretty  month  to*  cross 
the  Atlantic  in. 

This  was  what  betters  call  a  hedge, 
and  not  a  bad  one. 

Our  party  was  Queen  Djek  ;  Mr. 
Stevenson,  her  financier;  Mr.  Gallott, 
her  stage-manager  and  wrongful  heir; 
Elliot,  her  keeper,  her  lord,  her  king  ; 
Pippin,  her  slave,  always  trembling 
for  his  head ;  myself,  her  commis- 
sariat ;  and  one  George  Hinde,  from 
Wombwell's,  her  man-of-all-work. 

She  had  a  stout  cabin  built  upon 
deck  for  her.  It  cost  £  40  to  make  ; 
what  she  paid  for  the  accommodation 
Heaven  knows,  but  I  should  think  a 
good  round  sum,  for  it  was  the  curse 
of  the  sailors  and  passengers,  and 
added  fresh  terrors  to  navigation. 
The  steersman  could  not  see  the 
ship's  head  until  the  sea  took  the 
mariners'  part  and  knocked  it  into 
toothpicks. 

Captain  Sebor  had  such  a  passage 
with  us  as  he  had  never  encountered 
before.  He  told  us  so,  —  and  no  won- 
der ;  he  never  had  such  a  wholesale 
murderess  on  board  before,  —  contrary 
winds  forever,  and  stiff  gales  too. 
At  last  it  blew  great  guns ;  and  one 
night,  as  the  sun  went  down  crimson 
in  the  Gulf  of  Florida,  the  sea  run- 
ning mountains  high,  I  saw  Captain 
Sebor  himself  was  fidget}'.  He  had 
cause.  That  night  a  tempest  came 
on  ;  the  "  Ontario  "  rolled  fearfully 
and  groaned  like  a  dying  man ;  about 
two  in  the  morning  a  sea  struck  her, 
smashed  Djek's  cabin  to  atoms,  and 
left  her  exposed  and  reeling;  another 
such  would  now  have  swept  her  over- 
board, but  her  wits  never  left  her  for 
a  moment.  She  threw  herself  down 
flatter  than  any  man  could  have  con- 
ceived possible ;  out  went  all  her  four 
legs,  and  she  glued  her  belly  to  the 
deck ;  the  sailors  passed  a  chain  from 
the  weather  to  the  lee  bulwarks,  and 
she  seized  it  with  her  proboscis,  and 
held  on  like  grim  death.  Poor  thing, 
her  coat  never  got  not  to  say  dry  ;  she 
was  like  a  great  water-rat  all  the  rest 
of  the  voyage. 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


329 


The  passage  was  twelve  weeks  of 
foul  weather.  The  elephant  began 
to  be  suspected  of  being  the  cause  of 
this,  and  the  sailors  often  looked 
askant  at  her,  and  said  we  should 
never  see  port  till  she  walked  the 
plank  into  the  Atlantic.  If  her  un- 
derwriters saved  their  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds,  it  was  touch  and  go 
more  than  once  or  twice.  Moreover, 
she  ate  so  little  all  the  voyage  that 
it  was  a  wonder  to  Elliot  and  me  how 
she  came  not  to  die  of  sickness  and 
Hunger.  I  suppose  she  survived  it 
all  because  she  had  more  mischief  to 
do. 

As  the  pretty  little  witches  sing 
in  Mr.  Locke's  opera  of  "  Macbeth," 

She  must,  she  must,  she  must,  she 
must,  she  must  shed  —  much  — 
more  —  blood. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

OUR  preposterous  long  voyage  de- 
ranged all  the  calculations  that  had 
been  made  for  us  in  England,  and 
we  reached  New  York  just  at  the 
wrong  time.  We  found  Master  Burke 
playing  at  the  Park  Theatre,  and  we 
were  forced  to  treat  with  an  inferior 
house,  the  Bowery  Theatre.  We 
played  there  with  but  small  success 
compared  with  what  we  had  been 
used  to  in  Europe.  Master  Burke 
filled  the  house,  —  we  did  not  fill  ours, 
—  so  that  at  last  she  was  actually 
eclipsed  by  a  human  actor  ;  to  be  sure 
it  was  a  boy,  not  a  man,  and  child's 
play  is  sometimes  preferred  by  the 
theatre-going  world  even  to  horse- 
play. 

The  statesmen  were  cold  to  us ; 
they  had  not  at  this  time  learned  to 
form  an  opinion  of  their  own  at 
sight  on  such  matters,  and  we  did  not 
bring  them  an  overpowering  Euro- 
pean verdict  to  which  they  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  sign  their  names. 
There  was  no  groove  cut  for  the 
mind  to  run  in,  and  while  they  hes- 
itated the  speculation  halted.  I 
think  she  would  succeed  there  now ; 


but  at  this  time  they  were  not  ripe  for 
an  elephant. 

We  left  New  York,  and  away  to 
Philadelphia  on  foot  and  steamboat. 

There  is  a  place  on  the  Delaware 
where  the  boat  draws  up  to  a  small 
pier.  Down  this  we  marched,  ai.d 
about  ten  yards  from  the  end  the 
floor  gave  way  under  her  weight,  and 
Djck  and  her  train  fell  into  the  sea. 
I  was  awoke  from  a  revery,  and  found 
myself  sitting  right  at  top  of  her, 
with  my  knees  in  Chesapeake  Bay. 
Elliot  had  a  rough  Benjamin  on,  and 
as  he  was  coming  thundering  down 
with  the  rest  of  the  rubbish,  alive  and 
dead,  it  caught  in  a  nail,  and  he  hung 
over  the  bay  by  the  shoulder  like  an 
Indian  fakir,  cursing  and  swearing 
for  all  the  world  like  a  dog  barking. 
I  never  saw  such  a  posture,  —  and  O, 
the  language ! 

I  swam  out,  but  Djek  was  caught 
in  a  trap  between  the  two  sets  of  piles. 
The  water  was  about  two  feet  over 
her  head,  so  that  every  now  and  then 
she  disappeared,  and  then  striking  the 
bottom  she  came  up  again,  plunging, 
and  rolling,  and  jnakiijg  wafcs  like  a 
steamboat.  Her  trunk  she  kept  ver- 
tical, like  the  hose  of  a  diving-bell, 
and  O,  the  noises  that  came  up  from 
the  bottom  of  the  sea  through  that 
flesh-pipe  !  For  about  four  hours  she 
went  up  and  down  the  gamut  of  "  O 
Lord,  what  shall  I  do  "?  "  more  than  a 
thousand  times,  I  think.  We  brought 
ropes  to  her  aid,  and  boats  and  men, 
and  tried  all  we  knew  to  move  her, 
but  in  vain ;  and  when  we  had  ex- 
hausted our  sagacity  she  drew  upon 
a  better  bank,  —  her  oAvn.  Talk  of 
brutes  not  being  able  to  reason,  — 
gammon.  Djek  could  reason  like 
Solomon ;  for  each  fresh  difficulty 
she  found  a  fresh  resource.  On  this 
occasion  she  did  what  I  never  saw  her 
do  befyre  or  since :  she  took  her  enor- 
mous skull,  and  used  it  as  a  battering- 
ram  against  the  piles ;  two  of  them 
resisted  —  no  wonder  —  they  were 
about  eight  inches  in  diameter ;  the 
third  snapped  like  glass,  and  she 
plunged  through  and  waddled  on 


330 


JACK   OF   ALL   TRADES. 


shore.     I  met  her  with  a  bucket  of 
brandy  and  hot  water  —  stiff. 

Ladies,  who  are  said  to  sip  this 
compound  in  your  boudoirs  while 
your  husbands  are  smoking  at  the 
clubs,  but  I  don't  believe  it  of  you, 
learn  how  this  lady  disposed  of  her 
wooden  tumbler  full.  She  thrust  her 
proboscis  into  it.  Whis — s — s — s — p  ! 
now  it  is  all  in  her  trunk.  Whis — s 
— s — sh !  now  it  is  all  in  her  abdo- 
men :  on3  breath  drawn  and  exhaled 
sent  it  from  the  bucket  home.  This 
done,  her  eye  twinkled,  and  she  trum- 
peted to  the  tune  of  "  All  is  well  that 
ends  well." 

I  should  weary  the  reader  were  I 
to  relate  at  length  all  the  small  inci- 
dents that  befell  us  in  the  United 
States. 

The  general  result  was  failure,  loss 
of  money,  our  salaries  not  paid  up, 
and  fearful  embarrassments  staring 
us  in  the  face.  We  scraped  through 
without  pawning  the  elephant,  but 
we  were  often  on  the  verge  of  it.  All 
this  did  not  choke  my  ambition. 
Warned  by  the  past,  I  never  ventured 
near  her  (unless  Elliot  was  there)  for 
twelve  months  after  our  landing  ;  but 
I  was  always  watching  Elliot  and  her 
to  find  the  secret  of  his  influence. 

A  fearful  annoyance  to  the  leaders 
of  the  speculation  was  the  drunken-  j 
ness  of  Old  Tom  and  George  Hinde :  | 
these  two  encouraged  one  another  and 
defied  us,  and  of  course  they  were 
our  masters,  because  no  one  but  El- 
liot could  move    the  elephant  from 
place  to  place,  or  work  her  on  the 
stage. 

One  night  Elliot  was  so  drunk  that 
he  fell  down  senseless  at  the  door  of 
her  shed  on  his  way  to  repose.  I  was 
not  near,  but  Mr.  Gallott  it  seems 
was,  and  he  told  us  she  put  out  her 
proboscis,  drew  him  tenderly  in,  laid 
him  on  the  straw,  and  flung  some 
straw  over  him  or  partly  over  him. 
Mr.  Gallott  is  alive,  and  a  public 
character ;  you  can  ask  him  whether 
this  is  true  :  I  tell  this  one  thing  on 
hearsay. 

Not  long  after  this,  in  one  of  the 


American  towns,  I  forget  which, 
passing  by  Djok's  shed,  I  heard  a 
tremendous  row.  I  was  about  to  call 
Elliot,  thinking  it  was  the  old  story, 
somebody  getting  butchered;  but,! 
don't  know  how  it  was,  something 
stopped  me,  and  I  looked  cautiously 
in  instead,  and  saw  Tom  Elliot  walk- 
ing into  her  with  a  pitchfork,  she 
trembling  like  a  school-boy  with  her 
head  in  a  corner,  and  the  blood 
streaming  from  her  sides.  As  soon 
as  he  caught  sight  of  me  he  left  off 
and  muttered  unintelligibly.  I  said 
nothing.  I  thought  the  more. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WE  had  to  go  by  water  to  a  place 
called  City  Point,  and  thence  to  Pitts- 
ville.  I  made  a  mistake  as  to  the 
hour  the  boat  started,  and  Djek  and 
Co.  went  on  board  without  me. 

Well,  you  will  say  I  could  follow 
by  the  next  boat  But  how  about 
the  tin  to  pay  the  passage?  My 
pocket  was  dry,  and  the  treasurer 
gone  on.  But  I  had  a  good  set  of 
blacking-brushes ;  so  sold  them,  and 
followed  on  with  the  proceeds  —  got 
to  City  Point.  Elephant  gone  on  to 
Pittsville  ;  that  I  expected.  Twenty 
miles  or  so  I  had  to  tramp  on  an 
empty  stomach.  And  now  does  n't 
the  Devil  send  me  a  fellow  who  shows 
me  a  short  cut  through  a  wood  to 
Pittsville :  into  the  wood  I  go.  I 
thought  it  was  to  be  like  an  English 
wood,  —  out  of  the  sun  into  a  pleasant 
shade,  and,  by  then  you  are  cool, 
into  the  world  again.  Instead  of  that, 
"  the  deeper,  the  deeper  you  are  in 
it,"  as  the  song  of  the  bottfe  says,  the 
farther  yon  were  from  getting  out  of  it. 
Presently  two  roads  instead  of  one,  and 
then  I  knew  I  was  done.  I  took  one 
road :  it  twisted  like  a  serpent.  I 
had  not  been  half  an  hour  on  it  be- 
fore I  lost  all  the  points  of  the  compass. 
Says  I,  I  don't  know  whether  I  ever 
shall  see  daylight  again  ;  but  if  I  do, 
City  Point"  will  be  the  first  thing  I 


JACK   OF   ALL  TRADES. 


Sol 


shall  see.  You  mark  my  words, 
said  I. 

So  here  was  I  lost  in  what  they 
call  a  wood  out  there,  but  we  should 
call  a  forest  at  home.  And  now, 
being  in  the  heart  of  it,  I  got  among 
the  devilishest  noises,  and  nothing  to 
be  seen  to  account  for  them ;  little 
feet  suddenly  pattering  and  scurrying 
along  the  ground,  wings  flapping  out 
of  trees ;  but  what  struck  most  awe 
into  a  chap  from  the  Seven  Dials 
was  the  rattle,  —  the  everlasting  rat- 
tle, and  nothing  to  show.  Often  I 
have  puzzled  myself  what  this  rattle 
could  be.  It  was  like  a  thousand 
rattlesnakes,  and  did  n't  I  wish  I  was 
in  the  Seven  Dials,  though  some  get 
lost  in  them  for  that  matter.  After 
all,  I  think  it  was  only  insects,  but 
insects  by  billions ;  you  never  heard 
anything  like  it  in  an  English  wood. 

Just  as  I  was  losing  heart  in  this 
enchanted  wood,  I  heard  an  earthly 
sound,  the  tramp  of  a  horse's  foot.  It 
was  music. 

But  the  leaves  were  so  thick  I 
could  not  sec  where  the  horse  was ; 
he  seemed  to  get  farther  off,  and  then 
nearer.  At  last  the  sound  came  so 
close  I  made  a  run,  burst  through  a 
lot  of  gi-ccn  leaves,  and  came  out 
plump  on  a  man  riding  a  gray  cob. 
He  up  with  the  bat-end  of  his  whip 
to  fell  me,  but  seeing  I  was  respecta- 
ble, "  Halloo !  stranger,"  says  he, 
"  guess  you  sort  o'  startled  me." 
"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  says  I,  "but  I 
have  lost  my  way."  "  I  see  you  are 
a  stranger,"  said  he. 

So  then  he  asked  me  where  I  was 
bound  for,  and  I  told  him  Pittsville. 

I  won't  insult  the  reader  by  telling 
him  what  he  said  about  the  course  I 
had  been  taking  through  the  wood.  I 
might  as  well  tell  him  his  A  B  C,  or 
which  side  his  bread  and  butter  falls 
in  the  dust  on.  Then  he  asked  me 
who  I  was.  So  I  told  him  I  was  one 
of  the  elephant's  domestics,  least- 
ways I  did  not  word  it  so  candid : 
"  I  was  in  charge  of  the  elephant, 
and  had  taken  a  short  cut." 

Now  he   had  heard  of  Djek,  and 


seen  her  bills  up,  so  he  knew  it  was 
all  right.  "  How  am  I  to  find  my 
way  out,  sir  ?  "  said  I.  "  Find  your 
way  out  ?  "  said  he.  "  You  wiil  never 
find  your  way  out."  Good  news, 
that. 

He  thought  a  bit ;  then  he  said : 
"  The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to 
come  home  with  me,  and  to-mor- 
row I  will  send  you  on." 

I  could  have  hugged  him. 

"  You  had  better  walk  behind  me," 
says  he;  "my  pony  bites."  So  I 
tramped  astern;  and  on  we  went, 
patter,  patter,  patter  through  the 
wood.  At  first  I  felt  as  jolly  as  a 
sandboy  marching  behind  the  pony; 
but  when  we  had  pattered  best  part 
of  an  hour,  I  began  to  have  my  mis- 
givings. In  all  the  enchanted  woods 
ever  I  had  read  of,  there  was  a  small 
trifle  of  a  wizard  or  ogre  that  took 
you  home  and  settled  your  hash.  Fee 
few  fum,  I  smell  the  blood  of  an  Eng- 
lishmun,  etc. 

And  still  on  we  pattered,  and  the  sun 
began  to  decline,  and  the  wood  to 
darken,  and  still  we  pattered  on.  I 
was  just  thinking  of^turning  tail  and 
slipping  back  among  the  panthers,  and 
mosquitoes,  and  rattlesnakes,  when,  O 
be  joyful,  we  burst  on  a  clearing,  and 
there  was  a  nice  house  in  the  middle 
of  it,  and  out  came  the  dogs  jumping 
to  welcome  us,  and  niggers  no  end 
with  white  eyeballs  and  grinders  like 
snow. 

They  pulled  him  off  his  horse,  and 
in  we  went.  There  was  his  good 
lady,  and  his  daughter,  —  a  beautiful 
girl,  and  such  a  dinner.  We  sat 
down,  and  I  maintained  a  modest 
taciturnity  for  some  minutes  :  "  The 
silent  hog  eats  the  most  acorns." 
After  dinner  he  shows  me  all  manner 
of  ways  of  mixing  the  grog,  and  I 
show  him  one  way  of  drinking  it,  — 
when  you  can  get  it.  Then  he  must 
hear  about  the  elephant.  So  I  tell 
him  the  jade's  history,  but  bind  him 
to  secrecy. 

Then  the  young  lady  puts  in. 
"So  you  are  really  an  Englishman  1 " 
and  she  looks  me  all  over. 


332 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


"  That  you  may  take  your  oath  of, 
miss,"  says  I. 

"  Oh  ! "  says  she,  and  smiles.  I 
did  not  take  it  up  at  first,  but  I  see 
what  it  was  now.  Me  standing  five 
feet  four,  I  did  not  come  up  to  her  no- 
tion of  the  Father  of  all  Americans. 
"  Docs  this  great  people  spring  from 
such  a  little  stock  as  we  have  here  ? " 
thinks  my  young  lady.  I  should 
have  up  and  told  her  the  pluck  makes 
the  man,  and  not  the  inches ;  but  I 
lost  that  chance.  Then,  being  pressed 
with  questions,  I  told  them  all  my 
adventures,  and  they  hung  on  my 
words.  It  was  a  new  leaf  to  them,  I 
could  see  that. 

The  young  lady's  eyes  glittered 
like  two  purple  stars  at  a  stranger 
with  the  gift  of  the  gab  that  had  seen 
so  much  life  as  I  had,  and  midnight 
came  in  on  time.  Then  I  was  ushered 
to  bed.  Now  up  to  that  time  I  had 
always  gone  to  roost  without  pomp 
or  ceremony ;  sometimes  with  a  mould 
candle,  but  oftener  a  farthing  dip, 
which  I  have  seen  it  dart  its  beams 
out  of  a  bottle  instead  of  a  flat  candle- 
stick. 

This  time  a  whole  cavalcade  of  us 
went  up  the  stairs  :  one  blackie 
marched  in  my  van  with  two  lights, 
two  blackies  brought  up  my  rear. 
They  showed  me  into  a  beautiful 
room,  and  stood  in  the  half-light  with 
eyes  and  teeth  like  red-hot  silver, 
glittering  and  diabolical.  I  thought, 
of  course,  they  would  go  away  now. 
Not  they.  Presently  one  imp  of  dark- 
ness brings  me  a  chair. 

I  sit  down,  and  wonder.  Other 
two  lay  hold  of  my  boots  and  whip 
them  off.  This  done,  they  buzz  about 
me  like  black  and  white  fiends,  fidget- 
ing, till  I  longed  to  punch  their  heads. 
They  pull  my  coat  off  and  my  trou- 
sers ;  then  they  hoist  me  into  bed : 
this  done,  first  one  makes  a  run  and 
tucks  me  in,  and  grins  over  me  dia- 
bolical; then  another  comes  like  a 
battering-ram,  and  tucks  me  in  tight- 
er. Fiend  3  looks  at  the  work,  and 
puts  the  artful  touches  at  the  corners, 
and  behold  me  wedged,  and  then  the 


beneficent  fiends  mizzled  with  a 
hearty  grin  that  seemed  to  turn  them 
all  ivory.  I  could  not  believe  my 
senses :  I  had  never  been  tucked  in 
since  my  mother's  time. 

In  the  morning,  struggled  out,  and 
came  down  to  breakfast.  Took  leave 
of  the  good  Samaritan,  who  appoint- 
ed two  of  my  niggers  to  sec  me  out 
of  the  wood ;  made  my  bow  to  the 
ladies,  and  away  with  a  grateful  heart. 
The  niggers  conducted  me  clear  of  the 
!  wood  and  set  me  on  the  broad  road. 
Then  came  one  of  the  pills  a  poor 
fellow  has  to  stomach.  I  had  made 
friends  with  the  poor  darkies,  and 
now  I  had  not  even  a  few  pence  to 
give  them,  and  su<-h  a  little  would 
have  gone  so  far  with  them  !  I  have 
often  felt  the  bitterness  of  poverty, 
but  never  I  do  think  as  when  I  parted 
with  my  poor  niggers  at  the  edge  of 
the  wood,  and  was  forced  to  see  them 
go  slowly  home  without  a  farthing. 

I  wish  these  few  words  could  travel 

across  the  water,  and  my  good  host 

might  read  them,  and  see  I  have  not 

forgotten  him  all  these  years.     But, 

(  dear  heart !  you  may  be  sure   he  is 

j  not  upon  the  earth  now.     It  is  years 

j  ago,  and  a  man  that  had  the  heart  to 

I  harbor  a  stranger  and   a  wanderer, 

I  why,  he  would  be  one  of  the  first  to 

go.' 

We  steamed  and  tramped  up  and 
down  the  United  States  of  America. 
On  our  return  to  Norfolk  she  broke 
loose  at  midnight,  slipped  into  tha 
town,  took  up  the  trees  on  the  Bou- 
levard and  strewed  them  flat,  went 
into  the  market,  broke  into  a  vegeta- 
ble shop,  munched  the  entire  stock, 
next  to  a  coachmaker's,  took  off  a 
carriage  -  wheel,  opened  the  door, 
stripped  the  cushions,  and  we  found 
her  eating  the  stuffing. 

One  day  at  noon  we  found  our- 
i  selves  fourteen  miles  from  the  town, 
I  forget  its  name,  we  had  to  play  in 
that  very  night.  Mr.  Gallott  'had 
gone  on  to  rehearse,  etc.,  and  it  be- 
hooved us  to  he  marching  after  him. 
At  this  juncture,  old  Tom,  being 
rather  drunk,  feels  a  strong  desire  to 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


333 


he  quite  drunk,  and  refuses  to  stir 
from  his  brandy  and  water.  Our  ex- 
chequer was  in  no  condition  to  be  tri- 
fled with  thus :  if  Elliot  &  Co.  be- 
came helpless  for  an  hour  or  two,  we 
should  arrive  too  late  for  the  night's 
performance,  and  Djck  eating  her 
head  off  all  the  while.  I  coaxed  and 
threatened  our  two  brandy  sponges, 
but  in  vain  ;  they  stuck  and  sucked. 
I  was  in  despair,  and,  being  in  de- 
spair, came  to  a  desperate  resolution : 
I  determined  to  try  and  master  her 
myself  then  and  there,  and  to  defy 
these  drunkards. 

I  told  Pippin  my  project.  He 
started  back  aghast.  He  viewed  me 
in  the  light  of  a  madman.  "  Are 
you  tired  of  your  life  ? "  said  he. 
But  I  was  inflexible.  Seven  Dials 
pluck  was  up.  I  was  enraged  with 
my  drunkards,  and  I  was  tired  of 
waiting  so  many  years  the  slave  of  a 
quadruped  whose  master  was  a  brute. 

Elephants  are  driven  with  a  rod  of 
steel  sharpened  at  the  end ;  about  a 
foot  from  the  end  of  this  weapon  is  a 
large  hook ;  by  sticking  this  hook 
into  an  elephant's  ear,  and  pulling  it, 
you  make  her  sensible  which  way 
you  want  her  to  go,  and  persuade  her 
to  comply. 

Armed  with  this  tool,  I  walked  up 
to  Djek's  shed,  and,  in  the  most 
harsh  and  brutal  voice  I  could  com- 
mand, bade  her  come  out.'  She 
moved  in  the  shed,  but  hesitated.  I 
repeated  the  command  still  more  re- 
pulsively, and  out  she  came  toward 
me  very  slowly. 

With  beasts  such  as  lions,  tigers, 
and  elephants,  great  promptitude  is 
the  thing.  Think  for  them !  don't 
give  them  time  to  think,  or  their 
thoughts  may  be  evil.  I  had  learned 
this  much,  so  I  introduced  myself  by 
driving  the  steel  into  Djek's  ribs,  and 
then  hooking  her  ear,  while  Pippin 
looked  down  from  a  first-story  win- 
dow. If  Djek  had  known  how  my 
heart  was  beating  she  would  have 
killed  me  then  and  there ;  but,  ob- 
serving no  hesitation  on  my  part,  she 
took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 


walked  with  me  like  a  lamb.  I 
found  myself  alone  with  her  on  the 
road,  and  fourteen  miles  of  it  before 
us.  It  was  a  serious  situation,  but  I 
was  ripe  for  it  now.  All  the  old  wo- 
men's stories  and  traditions  about  an 
elephant's  character  had  been  driven 
out  of  me  by  experience  and  washed 
out  with  blood.  I  had  fathomed  El- 
liot's art.  I  had  got  what  the  French 
call  the  riddle-key  of  Mademoiselle 
Djek,  and  that  key  was  "  steel  "  ! 

On  we  marched,  the  best  of  friends. 
There  were  a  number  of  little  hills 
on  the  road,  and  as  we  mounted  one, 
a  figure  used  to  appear  behind  us  on 
the  crest  of  the  last  between  us  and 
the  sky  :  this  was  the  gallant  Pippin, 
solicitous  for  his  friend  s  fate,  but  de- 
sirous of  not  partaking  it  if  adverse. 
And  still  the  worthy  Djek  and  I 
marched  on  the  best  of  friends. 
About  a  mile  out  of  the  town,  she 
put  out  her  trunk  and  tried  to  curl  it 
round  me  in  a  caressing  way.  I  met 
this  overture  by  driving  the  steel  into 
her  till  the  blood  squirted  out  of  her. 
If  I  had  not,  the  siren  would  have 
killed  me  in  the  course  of  the  next 
five  minutes.  Whenever  she  relaxed 
her  speed  I  drove  the  steel  into  her. 
When  the  afternoon  sun  smiled  glo- 
riously on  us,  and  the  poor  thing  felt 
nature  stir  in  her  heart,  and  began  to 
frisk  in  her  awful  clumsy  way, 
pounding  the  great  globe,  I  drove 
the  steel  into  her ;  if  I  had  not,  I 
should  not  be  here  to  relate  this 
sprightly  narrative. 

Meantime,  at ,  her  stage-man- 
ager and  financier  were  in  great  dis- 
tress and  anxiety ;  four  o'clock,  and 
no  elephant.  At  last  they  got  so 
frightened,  they  came  out  to  meet  us, 
and  presently,  to  their  amazement 
and  delight,  Djek  strode  up  with  her 
new  general.  Their  ecstasy  was  great 
to  think  that  the  whole  business  was 
no  longer  at  a  drunkard's  mercy. 
"  But  how  did  you  manage  1  How 
ever  did  ye  win  her  heart  ?  "  "  With 
this,"  said  I,  and  showed  them  the 
bloody  steel. 

We  had  not  been  in  the  town  half 


334 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


an  hour  before  Tom  and  George 
came  in.  They  were  not  so  drunk 
but  what  they  trembled  for  their  situ- 
ations after  my  exploit,  and  rolled 
and  zigzagged  after  us  as  fast  as  they 
could. 

Bv  these  means  I  rose  from  mad- 
emoiselle's slave  to  be  her  friend  and 
companion. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THIS  feat  kept  my  two  drunkards 
in  better  order,  and  revived  my  own 
dormant  ambition.  I  used  now  to 
visit  tar  by  myself,  steel  m  hand,  to 
feed  her,  etc.,  and  scrape  acquaint- 
ance with  her  by  every  means,  —  steel 
in  hand.  One  day  I  was  feeding  her, 
when  suddenly  I  thought  a  house  had 
fallen  on  me.  I  felt  myself  crashing 
against  the  door,  and  there  I  was  ly- 
ing upon  it  in  the  passage  with  all  the 
breath  driven  clean  out  of  my  body. 
Pippin  came  and  lifted  me  up  and 
carried  me  into  the  air.  I  thought  I 
should  have  died  before  breath  could 
get  into  my  lungs  again.  She  had 
done  this  with  a  push  from  the  thick 
end  of  her  proboscis.  After  a  while  I 
came  to.  I  had  no  sooner  recovered 
my  breath  than  I  ran  into  the  stable, 
and  came  back  with  a  pitchfork.  Pip- 
pin saw  my  intention  and  implored  me, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  not  to.  I  would 
not  listen  to  him :  he  flung  his  arms 
round  me.  I  threatened  to  turn 
the  fork  on  him  if  he  did  not  let  me 

g°- 

"  Hark!"  said  he;  and  sure  enough, 
there  she  was  snorting  and  getting  up 
her  rage.  "  I  know  all  abqut  that," 
said  I ;  "  my  death-warrant  is  drawn 
up,  and  if  I  don't  strike  it  will  be 
signed.  This  is  how  she  has  felt  her 
way  with  all  of  them  before  she  has 
killed  them.  I  have  but  one  chance 
of  life,"  said  I,  "  and  I  won't  throw  it 
away  without  a  struggle."  I  opened 
the  door,  and,  with  a  mind  full  of  mis- 

fivings,  I  walked  quickly  up  to  her. 
did  not  hesitate  to  raise  the  question 
which  of  us  two  was  to  suffer,  I  knew 


that  would  not  do.  I  sprang  upon 
her  like  a  tiger,  and  drove  the  pitch- 
fork into  her  trunk.  She  gave  a  yell 
of  dismay  and  turned  a  little  from  me  ; 
I  drove  the  fork  into  her  ear. 

Then  came  out  her  real  character. 
She  wheeled  round,  ran  her  head 
into  a  corner,  stuck  out  her  great  but- 
tocks, and  trembled   all  over  like  a 
leaf.     I  stabbed  her  with  all  my  force 
for  half  an  hour  till  the  blood  poured 
out  of  every  square  foot  of  her  huge 
body,  and,  during  the  operation,  she 
would  have  crept  into  a  nutshell  if  she 
I  could.     I  filled  her  as  full  of  holes  as 
I  a  cloved  orange. 

The  blood  that  trickled  out  of  her 
|  saved  mine ;  and,  for  the  first  time,  I 
walked  out  of  her  shambles  her  mas- 
ter. 

One  year  and  six  months  after  we 
had  landed  at  New  York  to  conquer 
i  another  hemisphere,  we  turned  tail 
I  and  sailed  for  England  again.  We 
|  had  a  prosperous  voyage,  with  the 
exception  of  one  accident.  George 
Hinde,  from  incessant  brandy,  had 
delirium  tremens,  and  one  night,  in  a 
fit  of  it,  he  had  just  sense  enough  to 
see  that  he  was  hardly  to  be  trusted 
with  the  care  of  himself.  "John," 
said  he  to  me,  "  tie  me  to  this  mast 
hand  and  foot."  I  demurred  ;  but  he 
begged  me  for  Heaven's  sake,  so  I 
bound  him  hand  and  foot  as  per  order. 
This  done,  some  one  called  me  down 
below,  and  while  I  was  there  it  seems 
George  got  very  uncomfortable,  nnd 
began  to  halloo  and  complain.  Up 
comes  the  captain,  —  sees  a  man 
lashed  to  the  mast.  "  What  game  is 
this  ? "  says  he.  "  It  is  that  little 
blackguard  John,"  says  Hinde;  "he 
caught  me  sleeping  against  the  mast, 
and  took  a  mean  advantage ;  do  loose 
me,  captain  !  "  The  captain  made 
sure  it  was  a  sea-jest,  and  loosed  him 
with  his  own  hands.  "  Thank  you, 
captain,"  says  George,  "  you  are  a 
good  fellow.  God  bless  you  all ! " 
1  and  with  these  words  he  ran  aft  and 
|  jumped  into  the  sea.  A  Yankee 
sailor  made  a  grab  at  him  and  just 
'  touched  his  coat,  but  it  was  too  late 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


335 


to  save  him,  and  we  were  going  before 
the  wind  ten  knots  an  hour.  Thus 
George  Hinde  fell  by  brandy ;  his 
kindred  spirit,  old  Tom,  seemed 
ready  to  follow,  without  the  help  of 
water,  salt  or  fresh.  This  man's  face 
was  now  a  uniform  color,  white,  with 
a  scarce  perceptible  bluish-yellowish 
tinge.  He  was  a  moving  corpse. 

Drink  forever !  it  makes  men 
thieves,  murderers,  asses,  and  pau- 
pers ;  but  what  about  that  ?  so  long  as 
it  sends  them  to  an  early  grave  with 
"  beast "  for  their  friends  to  write 
over  their  tombstones,  unless  they 
have  a  mind  to  tell  lies  in  a  church- 
yard, and  that  is  a  common  trick. 

We  arrived  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Thames. 

Some  boats  boarded  us  with  fresh 
provisions  and  delicacies  ;  among  the 
rest,  one  I  had  not  tasted  for  many  a 
day  :  it  is  called  soft-tommy  at  sea, 
and  on  land  bread.  The  merchant 
stood  on  tiptoe  and  handed  a  loaf  to- 
ward me,  and  I  leaned  over  the  bul- 
warks and  stretched  down  to  him 
with  a  shilling  in  my  hand.  But,  as 
ill  luck  would  have  it,  the  shilling 
slipped  from  my  fingers  and  fell.  If 
it  had  been  some  men's  it  would  have 
fallen  into  the  boat,  others'  into  the 
sea,  slap  ;  but  it  was  mine,  and  so  it 
fell  on  the  boat's  very  rim,  and  then 
danced  to  its  own  music  into  the  wa- 
ter. I  looked  after  it  in  silence ;  a 
young  lady  with  whom  I  had  made 
some  little  acquaintance  during  the 
voyage  happened  to  be  at  my  elbow, 
and  she  laughed  most  merrily  as  the 
shilling  went  down.  I  remember  be- 
ing astonished  that  she  laughed. 
The  man  still  held  out  the  bread,  but 
I  shook  my  head.  "  I  must  go  with- 
out now,"  said  I ;  the  young  lady 
was  quite  surprised.  "  Why,  it  is 
worth  a  guinea,"  cried  she.  "  Yes, 
miss,"  said  I,  sheepishly,  "  but  we 
can't  always  have  what  we  like,  you 
see ;  'I  ought  to  have  held  my  shilling 
tighter." 

"  Your  shilling,"  cries  she.  "  Oh  !  " 
and  she  dashed  her  hand  into  her 
pocket  and  took  out  her  purse,  and  I 


could  see  her  beautiful  white  fingers 
tremble  with  eagerness  as  they  dived 
among  the  coin.  She  soon  bought 
the  loaf,  and,  as  she  handed  it  to  me, 
1  happened  to  look  in  her  face,  and 
her  cheek  was  red  and  her  eyes  quite 
brimming.  Her  quick  woman's 
heart  had  told  her  the  truth,  that  it 
was  a  well-dressed  and  tolerably  well- 
behaved  man's  last  shilling,  and  he 
returning  after  years  of  travel  to  his 
native  land. 

I  am  sure,  until  the  young  lady  felt 
for  me,  I  thought  nothing  of  it;  I 
had  been  at  my  last  shilling  more 
than  once.  But  when  I  saw  she 
thought  it  hard,  I  began  to  think  it 
was  hard,  and  I  remember  the  water 
came  into  rny  own  eyes.  Heaven 
bless  her,  and  may  she  never  want  a 
shilling  in  her  pocket,  nor  a  kind 
heart  near  her  to  show  her  the  world 
is  not  all  made  of  stone.  • 

We  had  no  money  to  pay  our 
passage,  and  we  found  Mr.  Yatcs 
somewhat  embarrassed.  We  had  cost 
him  a  thousand  or  two,  and  no  re- 
turn; so,  while  he  wrote  to  Mons. 
Huguet,  that  came  to  pass  in  England 
which  we  had  always  just  coatrived 
to  stave  off  abroad. 

The  elephant  was  pawned. 

And  now  I  became  of  use  to  the 
proprietors.  I  arranged  with  the 
mortgagees,  and  they  made  the  spout 
a  show-place.  I  used  to  exhibit  her 
and  her  tricks,  and  with  the  proceeds 
I  fed  her  and  Elliot  and  myself. 
.  We  had  been  three  weeks  in  pledge, 
when,  one  fine  morning,  as  I  was 
showing  off  seated  on  the  elephant's 
back,  I  heard  a  French  exclamation 
of  surprise  and  joy ;  I  looked  down, 
and  there  was  M.  Huguet.  I  came 
down  to  him,  and  lie,  whose  quick 
eye  saw  a  way  through  me  out  of 
drunken  Elliot,  gave  a  loose  to  his 
feelings,  and  embraced  me  a  la  Fran- 
caise,  "  which  made  the  common  peo- 
ple very  much  to  admire,"  as  the 
song  has  it ;  also  a  polite  how!  of  de- 
rision greeted  our  Continental  affec- 
tion. M.  Huguet  put  his  hand  into 
his  pocket,  and  we  got  out  of  limbo, 


336 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES, 


and  were  let  loose  upon  suffering  hu- 
manitv  once  more. 

They  talk  as  if  English  gold  did 
everything ;  but  it  was  French  gold 
bought  us  off,  I  know  that,  for  I  saw 
it  come  out  of  his  pocket. 

As  soon  as  we  were  redeemed,  we 
took  an  engagement  at  Astley's,  and, 
during  this  engagement,  cadaverous 
Tom,  finding  we  could  master  her, 
used  to  attend  less  and  less  to  her 
and  more  and  more  to  brandy. 

A  certain  baker,  who  brought  her 
loaves  every  morning  for  breakfast, 
used  to  ask  me  to  let  him  feed  her 
himself.  He  admired  her,  and  took 
this  way  of  making  her  fond  of  him. 
One  day  I  had  left  these  two  friends 
and  their  loaves  together  for  a  min- 
ute, when  I  heard  a  fearful  cry.  I 
knew  the  sound  too  well  by  this  time, 
and,  as  I  ran  back,  I  had  the  sense 
to  halloo  at  her  :  this  saved  the 
man's  life.  At  the  sound  of  my 
voice  she  dropped  him  from  a  height 
of  about  twelve  feet,  and  he  rolled 
away  like  a  ball  of  worsted.  I  dashed 
in,  up  with  the  pitchfork,  and  into 
her  like  lightning,  and,  while  the 
blood  was  squirting  out  of  her  from  a 
hundred  little  prong-holes,  the  poor 
baker  limped  away. 

Any  gentleman  or  lady  who  wish- 
es to  know  how  a  man  feels  when 
seized  by  an  elephant,  preparatory  to 
being  squelched,  can  consult  this  per- 
son ;  he  is  a  respectable  tradesman ; 
his  name  is  Johns ;  he  lives  near  Ast- 
ley's Theatre,  or  used  to,  and  for  ob-. 
vious  reasons  can  tell  you  this  one 
anecdote  out  of  many  such  better 
than  I  can  ;  that  is  if  he  has  not  for- 
gotten it,  and  /  dare  say  he  hasn't  — 
ask  him ! 

After  Astley's,  Drury  Lane  engaged 
us  to  play  second  to  the  Lions  of  My- 
sore ;  rather  a  down-come ;  but  we 
went.  In  this  theatre  we  behaved 
wonderfully.  Notwithstanding  the 
number  of  people  continually  buzz- 
ing about  us,  we  kept  our  temper, 
and  did  not  smash  a  single  one  of 
these  human  gnats,  so  trying  to  our 
little  female  irritability  and  feeble 


nerves.  The  only  thing  we  did 
wrong  was,  we  broke  through  a  gran- 
ite mountain  and  fell  down  on  to  the 

j  plains,  and  hurt  our  knee,  and  broke 
one  super,  —  only  one. 

The  Lions  of  Mysore  went  a  star- 
ring to  Liverpool,  and  we  accompa- 

j  nied  them.     While  we  were  there  the 

I  cholera  broke  out  in  England,  and  M. 
Huguet  summoned  us  hastily  to 
France.  We  brushed  our  hats,  put 
on  our  gloves,  and  walked  at  one 
stretch  from  Liverpool  to  Dover. 
There  we  embarked  for  Boulogne  : 
Djok,  cadaverous  Tom,  wolf-skin- 
lamb  Pippin,  and  myself.  I  was 
now  in  Huguet's  service  at  fifty 
francs  a  week  as  coadjutor  and  suc- 
cessor of  cadaverous  Tom,  whose  de- 
mise was  hourly  expected  even  by  us 
who  were  hardened  by  use  to  his  ap- 
pearance, which  was  that  of  the  ghost 

j  of  delirium  tremens.  We  arrived  off 
Boulogne  Pier ;  but  there  we  were 

!  boarded  by  men  in  uniforms  and 
mustaches,  and  questions  put  about 

;  the  cholera,  which  disease  the  civic 
authorities  of  Boulogne  were  deter- 
mined to  keep  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Channel.  The  captain's  answer 
proving  satisfactory,  we  were  allowed 
to  run  into  the  port. 

In  landing  anywhere  Djek  and  her 
attendants  had  always  to  wait  till 
the  other  passengers  had  got  clear, 
and  we  did  so  on  this  occasion.  At 
length  our  turn  came ;  but  we  had  no 
sooner  crossed  the  gangway  and 
touched  French  ground  than  a  move- 
ment took  place  on  the  quay,  and  a 
lot  of  bayonets  bristled  in  our  faces, 
and  "  Halte  la  !  "  was  the  word.  We 
begged  an  explanation ;  in  answer, 
an  officer  glared  with  eyes  like  sau- 
cers, and  pointed  with  his  finger  at 
Elliot.  The  truth  flashed  on  us. 
The  Frenchmen  were  afraid  of 
cholera  coming  over  from  England, 
and  here  was  a  man  who  looked 
plague,  cholera,  or  death  himself  in 
person.  We  remonstrated  through 

j  an  interpreter,  but  Tom's  face  was 
not  to  be  refuted  by  words.  Some 

I  were  for  sending  us  back  home  to  so 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


337 


diseased  a  country  as  this  article 
must  have  come  out  of;  but  milder 
measures  prevailed.  They  set  apart 
for  our  use  a  little  corner  of  the  quay, 
and  there  they  roped  us  in  and  senti- 
nelled us.  And  so  for  four  days,  in 
the  polished  kingdom  of  France,  we 
dwelt  in  a  hut  ruder  far  than  any  on 
the  banks  of  the  Ohio.  Drink  for- 
ever !  At  last,  as  Tom  Coffin  got 
neither  a  worse  nor  a  better  color, 
they  listened  to  reason,  and  let  us 
loose  upon  the  nation  at  large,  and 
away  we  tramped  for  Paris. 

Times  were  changed  with  us  in  one 
respect :  we  no  longer  marched  to 
certain  victory ;  our  long  ill-success 
in  America  had  lessened  our  arro- 
gance, and  we  crept  along  toward 
Paris.  But,  luckily  for  us,  we  had 
now  a  presiding  head,  and  a  good 
one.  The  soul  of  business  is  puffing, 
and  no  man  puffed  better  than  our 
chief,  M.  Huguet.  Half-way  between 
Boulogne  and  Paris  we  were  met  by 
a  cavalier  carrying  our  instructions 
how  we  were  to  enter  Paris ;  and, 
arrived  at  St.  Denis,  instead  of  going 
straight  on,  we  skirted  the  town,  and 
made  our  formal  entry  by  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  and  the  Arch  of  Tri- 
umph. Huguet  had  come  to  terms 
with  Franconi,  and,  to  give  Djek's 
engagement  more  importance,  Fran- 
coni's  whole  troop  were  ordered  out  to 
meet  us  and  escort  us  in.  They 
paraded  up  and  down  the  Champs 
Elyse'es  first,  to  excite  attention  and 
inquiry,  and  when  the  public  were 
fairly  agog  our  cavalcade  formed 
outside  the  barrier,  and  came  glitter- 
ing and  prancing  through  the  arch. 
An  elephant  has  her  ups  and  downs 
like  the  rest.  Djek,  the  despised  of 
Kentucky  and  Virginia,  burst  on 
Paris  the  centre  of  a  shining  throng. 
Franconi's  bright  amazons  and  ex- 
quisite cavaliers  rode  to  and  fro  our 
line,  carrying  sham  messages  with 
earnest  faces ;  Djek  was  bedecked  with 
ribbons,  and  seemed  to  tread  more 
majestically,  and  our  own  hearts  beat 
higher,  as  amid  grace,  and  beauty, 
and  pomp,  sun  shining  —  hats  waving 
15 


—  feathers  bending  —  moo  cheering 
• —  trumpets  crowing —  and  flints  strik- 
ing fire,  we  strode  proudly  into  the 
great  city,  the  capital  of  pleasure. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THESE  were  bright  days  to  me.  I 
was  set  over  old  Tom,  —  fancy  that ; 
and  my  salary  doubled  his.  I  had 
fifty  francs  a  week,  and  cleared  as 
much  more  by  showing  her  privately 
in  her  stable. 

Money  melts  in  London,  —  it  evap- 
orates in  Paris.  Pippin  was  a  great 
favorite  both  with  men  and  women 
behind  the  scenes  at  Franconi's.  He 
introduced  me  to  charming  compan- 
ions of  both  sexes ;  gayety  reigned, 
and  tin  and  morals  "  made  them- 
selves air,  into  which  they  vanished," 
Shakespeare, 

Toward  the  close  of  her  engage- 
ment Djek  made  one  of  her  mistakes ; 
she  up  with  her  rightful  heir  and 
broke  his  ribs  against  the  side  scenes, 

We  nearly  had  to  stop  her  per- 
formances; we  could  not  mend  our 
rightful  heir  by  next  night,  and  sub- 
stitutes did  not  pour  in.  "  I  won't 
go  on  with  her,"  "  I  won't  play  with 
her,"  was  aery  that  even  the  humblest 
and  neediest  began  to  raise.  I  am  hap- 
py to  say  that  she  was  not  under  my 
superintendence  when  this  rightful 
heir  came  to  grief. 

And  now  the  cholera  came  to  Paris, 
and  theatricals  of  all  sorts  declined, 
for  there  was  a  real  tragedy  playing 
in  every  street.  The  deaths  were 
very  numerous,  and  awfully  sudden  ; 
people  were  struck  down  in  the  streets 
as  if  by  lightning  ;  gloom  and  terror 
hung  over  all. 

When  this  terrible  disease  is  better 
known  it  will  be  found  to  be  of  the  na- 
ture of  strong  poison,  and  its  cure,  if 
any,  will  be  strychnine,  belladonna, 
or,  likelier  still,  some  quick  and  deadly 
mineral  poison  that  kills  the  healthy 
with  cramps  and  discoloration. 

In  its  rapid  form  cholera  is  not  to 
V 


338 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


be  told  from  quick  poison,  and  hence 
sprung  up  among  the  lower  order  in 
Paris  a  notion  that  wholesale  poison- 
ing was  on  foot. 

Pippin  and  I  were  standing  at  the 
door  of  a  wine-shop,  waiting  for  our 
change.  His  wild  appearance  attract- 
ed first  one  and  then  another.  Little 
knots  of  people  collected  and  eyed  us ; 
then  they  began  to  talk  and  murmur, 
and  cast  suspicious  glances.  "  Come 
away,"  said  Pippin,  rather  hastily. 
We  walked  off;  they  walked  after  us, 
increasing  like  a  snowball,  and  they 
murmured  louder  and  louder.  I  asked 
Pippin  what  the  fools  were  gabbling 
about.  He  told  me  they  suspected  us 
of  being  the  poisoners.  At  this  I 
turned  round,  and,  being  five  feet 
four,  and  English,  was  for  punching 
some  of  their  heads  ;  but  the  athletic, 
pacific  Italian  would  not  hear  of  it, 
much  less  co-operate ;  and  now  they 
surrounded  us  just  at  the  corner  of 
one  of  the  bridges,  lashing  themselves 
into  a  fury,  and  looking  first  at  us, 
and  then  afthe  river  below.  Pip- 
pin was  as  white  as  death,  and  I 
thought  it  was  all  up  myself,  when  by 
good  luck  a  troop  of  mounted  gen- 
darmes issued  from  the  palace.  Pip- 
pin hailed  them  ;  they  came  up,  and, 
after  hearing  both  sides,  took  us  under 
their  protection,  and  off  we  marched 
between  two  files  of  cavalry,  followed 
by  the  curses  of  a  superficial  populace. 
Extremes  don't  do.  Pippin  was  the 
color  of  ink,  Elliot  of  paper;  both 
their  mugs  fell  under  suspicion,  and 
nearly  brought  us  to  grief. 

Franconi  closed,  and  Djek,  Huguet, 
and  Co.  started  on  a  provincial  tour. 

They  associated  themselves  on  this 
occasion  with  Michelet,  who  had  some 
small  wild  animals,  such  as  lions,  ti- 
gers, and  leopards. 

Our  first  move  was  to  Versailles. 
Here  we  built  a  show-place  and  exhib- 
ited Djek,  not  as  an  actress,  but  as  a  j 
private   elephant,   in  which   capacity  i 
she  did  the  usual  elephant  business,  j 
besides  a  trick   or  two  that  most  of 
them  have    not  brains  enough  for, 
whereof  anon. 


Michelet  was  the  predecessor  of 
Van  Amburgh  and  Carter,  and  did 
everything  they  do  a  dozen  years  be- 
fore they  were  ever  heard  of;"  used  to 
go  into  the  lions'  den,  pull  them  about, 
and  put  his  head  down  their  throats, 
and  their  paws  round  his  neck,  etc., 
etc. 

I  observed  this  man,  and  learned 
something  from  him.  Besides  that 
general  quickness  and  decision  which 
is  necessary  with  wild  animals,  I  no- 
ticed that  he  was  always  on  the  look- 
out for  mischief,  and  always  punished 
j  it  before  it  came.  Another  point,  he  al- 
ways attacked  the  offending  part,  and 
so  met  the  evil  in  front ;  for  instance, 
if  one  of  his  darlings  curled  a  lip  and 
showed  a  tooth,  he  hit  him  over  the 
mouth  that  moment  and  nowhere  else ; 
if  one  elongated  a  claw,  he  hit  him 
over  the  foot  like  lightning.  He  read 
the  whole  crew  as  I  had  learned  to 
read  Djek,  and  conquered  their  malice 
by  means  of  that  marvellous  cowardice 
which  they  all  show  if  they  can  see 
no  signs  of  it  in  you. 

There  are  no  two  ways  with  wild 
|  beasts.  If  there  is  a  single  white  spot 
in  your  heart,  leave  them,  for  your 
life  will  be  in  danger  every  mo- 
ment. If  you  can  despise  them,  and 
keep  the  rod  always  in  sight,  they  are 
your  humble  servants ;  nobody  more 
so. 

Our  exhibition,  successful  at  first, 
began  to  flag  ;  so  that  the  fertile  brain 
of  M.  Huguet  had  to  work.  He  pro- 
posed to  his  partner  to  stand  a  tiger, 
and  he  would  stand  a  bull,  and  "  we 
will  have  a  joint-stock  fight  fike  the 
King  of  Oude."  Michelet  had  his 
misgivings,  but  Huguet  overruled 
him.  That  ingenious  gentleman  then 
printed  bills  advertising  for  a  certain 
day  a  fight  between  a  real  Bengal  ti- 
ger and  a  ferocious  bull  that  had  just 
gored  a  man  to  death.  This  done,  he 
sent  me  round  the  villages  to  find  and 
hire  a  bull.  "  Mind  you  get  a  mild 
one,  or  I  shall  have  to  pay  for  a  hole 
in  the  tiger's  leather."  I  found  one 
which  the  owner  consented  to  risk  for 
so  much  money  down,  and  the  dam- 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


339 


nge  he  should  sustain  from  tiger  to  be 

alued  independently  by  two  farmers 
/ter  the  battle. 

The  morning  of  the  fight  Pippin 
and  I  went  for  our  bull,  and  took 
him  out  of  the  yard  towards  Versailles ; 
but  when  we  had  gone  about  two 
hundred  yards,  he  became  uneasy, 
looked  round,  sniffed  about,  and  final- 
ly turned  round  spite  of  all  our  efforts, 
and  paced  home  again.  We  remon- 
strated with  the  proprietor.  "  O," 
said  he,  "  I  forgot ;  he  won't  start 
without  the  wench."  So  the  wench 
in  question  was  sent  for  (his  com- 
panion upon  amatory  excursions). 
She  went  with  us,  and  launched  us 
toward  Versailles.  This  done,  she 
returned  home,  and  we  marched  on  ; 
but  before  we  had  gone  a  furlong 
Taurus  showed  symptoms  of  uneasi- 
ness ;  these  increased,  and  at  last  he 
turned  round  and  walked  tranquilly 
home.  We  hung  upon  him,  thrashed 
him,  and  bullied  him,  all  to  no  pur- 
pose. His  countenance  was  placid, 
but  his  soul  resolved,  and  —  he  walked 
home,  slowly,  but  inevitably  ;  so  then, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  him 
have  the  wench  all  the  way  to  the 
tiger,  and  she  would  not  go  to  Ver- 
sailles till  she  had  put  on  some  new 
finery,  —  short  waist,  coal-scuttle  bon- 
net, etc.  More  time  lost  with  that ; 
and,  when  we  did  arrive  in  the  arena, 
the  spectators  were  tired  of  waiting. 
The  bull  stood  in  the  middle,  con- 
fused and  stupid.  The  tiger  was  in 
his  cage  in  a  corner ;  we  gave  him 
time  to  observe  his  prey,  and  then  we 
opened  the  door  of  his  cage. 

A  shiver  ran  through  the  audience 
(they  were  all  seated  in  boxes  looking 
down  on  the  area). 

A  moment  more,  and  the  furious 
animal  would  spring  upon  his  victim, 
and  his  fangs  and  claws  sink  deep 
into  its  neck,  etc.,  etc.  Vide  books 
of  travels. 

One  moment  succeeded  to  another, 
and  nothing  occurred.  The  ferocious 
animal  lay  quiet  in  his  cage,  and 
showed  no  sign  ;  so  then  we  poked 
the  ferocious  animal.  lie  snarled, 


but  would  not  venture  out.  When 
this  had  lasted  a  long  time,  the  spec- 
tators began  to  doubt  his  ferocity,  and 
to  goose  the  ferocious  animal.  So  I 
got  a  red-hot  iron  and  nagged  him 
behind.  He  gave  a  yell  of  dismay, 
and  went  into  the  arena  like  a  shot. 
He  took  no  notice  of  the  bull.  All 
he  thought  of  was  escape  from  the 
horrors  that  surrounded  him.  Winged 
by  terror,  he  gave  a  tremendous 
spring,  and  landed  his  fore  paws  on 
the  boxes,  stuck  fast,  and  glared  in 
at  the  spectators.  They  rushed  out 
yelling.  He  dug  his  hind  claws  into 
the  wood-work,  and  by  slow  and  pain- 
ful degrees  clambered  into  the  boxes. 
When  he  got  in,  the  young  and  act- 
ive were  gone  home,  and  he  ran  down 
the  stairs  among  the  old  people  that 
could  not  get  clear  so  quick  as  the 
rest.  He  was  so  frightened  at  the  peo- 
ple that  he  skulked  and  hid  himself 
in  a  cornfield,  and  the  people  were  so 
frightened  at  him  that  they  ran  home 
and  locked  their  street  doors.  So  one 
coward  made  many. 

They  thought  the  poor  wretch  had 
attacked  them,  and  the  journal  next 
day  maintained  this  view  of  the  trans- 
action, and  the  town  to  this  day  be- 
lieves it.  We  netted  our  striped  cow- 
ard with  four  shutters,  and  kicked 
him  into  his  cage. 

The  bull  went  home  with  "  the 
wench,"  and  to  this  day  his  thick 
skull  has  never  comprehended  what 
the  deuce  he  went  to  Versailles  for. 

This  was  how  we  competed  with 
Oriental  monarchs. 

We  marched  southward,  through 
Orleans,  Tours,  etc.,  to  Bordeaux,  and 
were  pretty  well  received  in  all  these 
places  except  at  one  small  place  whose 
name  I  forget.  Here  they  hissed  her 
out  of  the  town  at  sight.  It  turned 
out  she  had  been  there  before  and 
pulverized  a  brushmaker,  a  popular 
man  among  them. 

Soon  after  Bordeaux  she  had  words 
with  the  lions.  They,  in  their  infer- 
nal conceit,  thought  themselves  more 
attractive  than  Djek.  It  is  vice  ver- 
sa, and  by  a  long  chalk,  said  Djek 


340 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


and  Co.  The  parties  growled  a  bit, 
then  parted  to  meet  no  more  in  this 
world. 

From  Bordeaux  we  returned  by 
another  route  to  Paris ;  for  we  were 
only  starring  it  in  the  interval  of  our 
engagement  as  an  actress  with  Fran- 
coni.  We  started  one  morning  from 

with  light  hearts,  our  faces  turned 

toward  the  gay  city,  Elliot,  Pippin, 
and  I.  Elliot  and  I  walked  by  the  side 
of  the  elephant,  Pippin  walking  some 
forty  yards  in  the  rear.  He  never  trust- 
ed himself  nearer  to  her  on  a  march. 

We  were  plodding  along  in  this 
order,  when,  all  in  a  moment,  without 
reason  or  warning  of  any  sort,  she 
spun  round  between  us  on  one  heel 
like  a  thing  turning  on  a  pivot,  and 
strode  back  like  lightning  at  Pippin. 
He  screamed  and  ran  ;  but,  before  he 
could  take  a  dozen  steps,  she  was 
upon  him,  and  struck  him  down  with 
her  trunk  and  trampled  upon  him ; 
she  then  wheeled  round  and  trudged 
back  as  if  she  had  merely  stopped  to 
brush  off  a  fly  or  pick  up  a  stone. 
After  the  first  moment  of  stupefaction, 
both  Elliot  and  I  had  run  after  her 
with  all  the  speed  we  had ;  but  so 
rapid  was  her  movement,  and  so  in- 
stantaneous the  work  of  death,  that 
we  only  met  her  on  her  return  from 
her  victim.  I  will  not  shock  the  read- 
er by  describing  the  state  in  which  we 
found  our  poor  comrade ;  but  he  was 
crushed  to  death.  He  never  spoke, 
and  I  believe  and  trust  he  never  felt 
anything  for  the  few  minutes  that 
breath  lingered  in  his  body.  We 
kneeled  down  and  raised  him,  and 
spoke  to  him,  but  he  could  not  hear 
us.  When  Djek  got  her  will  of  one 
of  us,  all  our  hope  used  to  be  to  see  the 
man  die ;  and  so  it  was  with  poor  dear 
Pippin  ;  mangled,  and  life  impossible, 
•we  kneeled  down  and  prayed  to  God 
for  his  death ;  and,  by  Heaven's  mer- 
cy, I  think  in  about  four  minutes  from 
the  time  he  got  his  death-blow  his 
spirit  passed  away,  and  our  well-be- 
loved comrade  and  friend  was  noth- 
ing now  but  a  lump  of  clay  on  our 
Lands. 


We  were  some  miles  from  any 
town  or  village,  and  did  not  know 
what  to  do,  and  how  to  take  him  to  a 
resting-place.  At  last  we  were  obliged 
to  tie  the  body  across  the  proboscis, 
and  cover  it  as  well  as  we  could,  and 
so  we  made  his  murderess  carry  him 
to  the  little  town  of  La  Palice,  —  yes, 
La  Palice.  Here  we  stopped,  and  a 
sort  of  inquest  was  held,  and  M.  Hu- 
guet  attended  and  told  the  old  story  : 
said  the  man  had  been  cruel  to  her, 
and  she  had  put  up  with  it  as  long  as 
she  could.  Verdict,  "  Served  him 
right  " ;  and  so  we  lied  over  our  poor 
friend's  murdered  body,  and  buried 
him  with  many  sighs  in  the  little 
churchyard  of  La  Palice,  and  then 
trudged  on,  sad  and  downcast,  toward 
the  gay  capital. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

I  THINK  a  lesson  is  to  be  learned 
from  this  sad  story.  Too  much  fear 
is  not  prudence.  Had  poor  Pippin 
walked  with  Elliot  and  me  alongside 
the  elephant,  she  dared  not  have  at- 
tacked him.  But  through  fear  he 
kept  .forty  yards  in  the  rear,  and  she 
saw  a  chance  to  get  him  by  himself; 
and,  from  my  knowledge  of  her,  I 
have  little  doubt  she  had  meditated 
this  attempt  for  months  before  she 
carried  it  out.  Poor  Pippin  ! 

We  arrived  in  Paris  to  play  with 
Franconi.  Now  it  happened  to  be 
inconvenient  to  Franconi  to  fulfil  his 
engagement.  He  accordingly  declined 
us.  M.  Huguet  was  angry,  —  threat- 
ened legal  proceedings.  Franconi  an- 
swered, "  Where  is  Pippin  1 "  Huguet 
shut  up.  Then  Franconi  followed 
suit;  if  hard  pressed,  he  threatened 
to  declare  in  open  court  that  it  was 
out  of  humanity  alone  he  declined  to 
fulfil  his  engagement.  This  stopped 
M.  Huguet's  mouth  altogether.  He 
took  a  place  on  the  Boulevard,  and 
we  snowed  her  and  her  tricks  at  three 
prices,  and  "did  a  rattling  business. 
Before  we  had  been  a  fortnight  in 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


341 


Paris,  old  Tom  Elliot  died  at  the 
Hospital  Dubois,  and  I  became  her 
vizier  at  a  salary  of'one  hundred  francs 
per  week. 

Having  now  the  sole  responsibility, 
I  watched  her  as  you  would  a  powder- 
magazine  lighted  by  gas.  I  let  no- 
body but  M.  Huguet  go  near  her  in 
my  absence.  This  gentleman  contin- 
ued to  keep  her  sweet  on  him  with 
lumps  of  sugar,  and  to  act  as  her 
showman  when  she  exhibited  public- 
ly- 

One  day  we  had  a  message  from 
the  Tuilerics,  and  we  got  the  place 
extra  clean ;  and  the  king's  children 
paid  her  a  visit,  —  a  lot  of  little  chaps. 
I  did  not  know  their  names,  but  1 
suppose  it  was  Prince  Joinville,  Au- 
mulc,  and  cetera.  All  I  know  is  that 
while  these  little  Louis  Philippes  were 
coaxing  her,  and  feeding  her,  and  cut- 
ting about  her,  and  sliding  down  her, 
and  I  was  telling  them  she  was  a  duck, 
the  perspiration  was  running  down 
my  back  one  moment  and  cold  shiv- 
ers the  next,  and  I  thanked  Heaven 
devoutly  when  the  young  gents  went 
back  to  their  papa  and  mamma,  and  no 
bones  broken.  The  young  gentlemen 
reported  her  affability  and  my  lie's  to 
the  king,  and  he  engaged  her  to  per- 
form gratis  in  the  Champs  Elysees 
during  the  three  days'  fete.  Fifteen 
hundred  francs  for  this. 

But  Hugnet  was  penny-wise  and 
pound-foolish  to  agree,  for  it  took  her 
gloss  off.  Showed  her  gratis  to  half 
the  city. 

Among  Djek's  visitors  came  one 
day  a  pretty  young  lady,  a  nursery 
governess  to  some  nobleman's  chil- 
dren, whose  name  I  forget,  but  he 
was  English.  The  children  were 
highly  amused  with  Djek,  and  quite 
loath  to  go.  The  young  lady,  who  had 
a  smattering  of  English  as  I  had  of 
French,  put  several  questions  to  me. 
I  answered  them  more  polite  than 
usual  on  account  of  her  being  pretty, 
and  I  used  a  privilege  I  had  and  gave 
her  an  order  for  free  admission  some 
other  day.  She  came,  with  only  one 
child,  which  luckily  was  one  of  those 


deeply  meditative  ones  that  occur  but 
rarely,  and  only  bring  out  a  word 
every  half-hour  ;  so  mademoiselle  and 
I  had  a  chat,  which  I  found  so  agree- 
able th'at  I  rather  neglected  the  gen- 
eral public  for  her.  I  made  it  my 
business  to  learn  where  she  aired  the 
children,  and,  one  vacant  morning, 
dressed  in  the  top  of  the  fashion,  I 
stood  before  her  in  the  garden  of  the 
Tuileries.  She  gave  a  half-start  and 
a  blush,  and  seemed  very  much  struck 
with  astonishment  at  this  rencounter. 
She  was  a  little  less  astonished  next 
week  when  the  same  thing  happened, 
but  still  she  thought  these  coinciden- 
ces remarkable,  and  said  so.  In  short, 
I  paid  my  addresses  to  Mademoiselle 

.     She  was  a  charming  brunette 

from  Geneva,  greatly  my  superior  in 
education  and  station.  I  was  perfectly 
conscious  of  this,  and  instantly  made 
this  calculation :  "  All  the  better  for 
me  if  I  can  win  her."  But  the  reader 
knows  my  character  by  this  time,  and 
must  have  observed  how  large  a  por- 
tion of  it  effrontery  forms.  I  wrote 
to  her  every  day,  sometimes  in  the 
French  language  —  no,  not  in  the 
French  language,  in  French  words. 
She  sometimes  answered  in  English 
words.  She  was  very  pretty  and  very 
interesting,  and  I  fancied  her.  When 
a  man  is  in  love  he  can  hardly  see  dif- 
ficulties. I  pressed  her  to  marry  me, 
and  I  believed  she  would  consent. 
When  I  came  to  this  point  the  young 
lady's  gayety  declined,  and  when  I 
was  painting  her  pictures  of  our  con- 
jugal happiness,  she  used  to  sigh  in- 
stead of  brightening  at  the  picture. 
At  last  I  pressed  her  so  hard  that  she 
consented  to  write  to  Geneva  and  ask 
her  parents'  consent  to  our  union. 
When  the  letter  went  I  was  in  tower- 
ing spirits.  I  was  now  in  the  zenith 
of  my  prosperity.  The  risks  I  had 
run  with  Djek  were  rewarded  by  a 
heavy  salary  and  the  post  of  honor 
near  her,  and.  now  that  I  was  a  little 
weary  of  roaming  the  world  alone 
with  an  elephant,  fate  had  thrown  in 
my  way  a  charming  companion  who 
would  cheer  the  weary  road. 


342 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


Dreams. 

The  old  people  at  Geneva  saw  im- 
position with  another  eye.  ';  He  is  a 
servant  liable  to  lose  his  place  at  any 
moment  by  any  one  of  a  hundred  ac- 
cidents, and  his  profession  is  a  discred- 
itable one  :  why,  he  is  a  showman." 

They  told  her  all  this  in  language 
so  plain  that  she  would  never  show 
me  the  letter.  I  was  for  defying  their 
advice  and  authority,  but  she  would 
not  hear  of  it.  I  was  forced  to  tem- 
porize. "  In  a  month's  time,"  said  I 
to  myself,  "  her  scruples  will  melt 
away."  But  in  less  than  a  fortnight 
the  order  came  for  us  to  march  into 
Flanders.  I  communicated  this  cruel 
order  to  my  sweetheart.  She  turned 
pale,  and  made  no  secret  of  her  at- 
tachment to  me,  and  of  the  pain  she 
felt  at  parting.  Every  evening  before 
we  left  Paris  I  saw  her,  and  implored 
her  to  trust  herself  to  me  and  leave 
Paris  as  my  wife.  She  used  to  smile 
at  my  pictures  of  wedded  happiness, 
and  cry  the  next  minute  because  she 
dared  not  give  herself  and  me  that 
happiness ;  but,  with  all  this,  she  was 
firm,  and  would  not  fly  in  her  parents' 
face. 

At  last  came  a  sad  and  bitter  hour : 
hat  in  hand,  as  the  saying  is,  I  made 
a  last  desperate  endeavor  to  persuade 
her  to  be  mine,  and  not  to  let  this 
parting  take  place  at  all.  She  was 
much  agitated,  but .  firm  ;  and,  the 
more  I  said,  the  firmer  she  became. 
So  at  last  Igrew frantic  and  reproached 
her.  I  called  her  a  cold-hearted  co- 
quette, and  we  parted  in  anger  and  de- 
spair. 

Away  into  the  wide  world  again, 
not  as  I  used  to  start  on  these  pil- 
grimages, with  a  stout  heart  and  iron 
nerves,  but  cold,  and  weary,  and  worn 
out  before  the  journey  had  begun.  As 
we  left  Paris  behind  us  I  had  but  one 
feeling,  that  the  best  of  life  was  at  an 
end  for  me.  My  limbs  took  me  along 
like  machinery,  but  my  heart  was  a 
lump  of  ice  inside  me,  and  I  would 
have  thanked  any  man  for  knocking 
me  on  the  head  and  ending  the  mo- 
notonous farce  of  my  existence ;  ay, 


gentlefolks,  even  a  poor  mechanic  can 
feel  like  this  when  the  desire  of  his 
heart  is  balked  forever. 

Trudge  !  trudge  !  trudge  !  for  ever 
and  ever. 

Tramp !  tramp  !  tramp !  for  ever 
and  ever. 

A  man  gets  faint  and  weary  of  it  at 
last,  and  there  comes  a  time  when  he 
pines  for  a  hearth-stone,  and  a  voice 
he  can  believe,  a  part,  at  least,  of 
what  it  says,  and  a  Sunday  of  some 
sort  now  and  then  ;  and  my  time  was 
come  to  long  for  these  things,  and  for 
a  pretty  and  honest  face  about  me  to 
stand  for  the  one  bit  of  peace  and  the 
one  bit  of  truth  in  my  vagabond  char- 
latan life. 

I  lost  my  appetite  and  sleep,  and 
was  very  nearly  losing  heart  altogeth- 
er. My  clothes  hung  about  me  like 
bags,  I  got  so  thrn.  It  was  my  infer- 
nal occupation  that  cured  me  after 
all.  Djek  gave  me  no  time  even  for 
despair.  The  moment  I  became  her 
sole  guardian  I  had  sworn  on  my 
knees  she  should  never  kill  another 
man ;  judge  whether  I  had  to  look 
sharp  after  her  to  keep  the  biped  from 
perjury  and  the  quadruped  from  mur- 
der.* I  slept  with  her  —  rose  early  — 
fed  her  —  walked  twenty  miles  with 
her,  or  exhibited  her  all  day,  some- 
times did  both,  and  at  night  rolled 
into  the  straw  beside  her,  too  deadly 
tired  to  feel  all  my  unhappiness ;  and 
so,  after  awhile,  time  and  toil  blunted 
my  sense  of  disappointment,  and  I 
trudged,  and  tramped,  and  praised 
Djek's  moral  qualities  in  the  old  rou- 
tine. Only  now  and  then,  when  I 
saw  the  country  lads  in  France  and 
Belgium  going  to  church  dressed  in 
their  best  with  their  sweethearts,  and 
I  in  prison  in  the  stable  with  my  four- 
legged  hussy,  waiting  perhaps  till 
dark  to  steal  out  and  march  to  some 
fresh  town,  I  used  to  feel  as  heavy  as 
lead  and  as  bitter  as  wormwood,  and 
wish  we  were  all  dead  together  by  way 
of  a  change. 

A  man  needs  a  stout  heart  to  go 
through  the  world  at  all,  but  most  of 
all  he  needs  it  for  a  roving  life;  don't 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


343 


you  believe  any  other,  no  matter  who 
tells  you. 

With  this  brief  notice  of  my  feel- 
ings I  pass  over  two  months'  travel. 
All  through  I  spare  the  reader  much, 
though  I  dare  say  he  does  n't  see  it. 

Sir,  the  very  names  of  the  places  I 
have  visited  would  fill  an  old-fash- 
ioned map  of  Europe. 

Talk  of  Ulysses  and  his  travels ! 
he  never  saw  the  tenth  part  of  what 
I  have  gone  through. 

I  have  walked  with  Djek  farther 
than  round  the  world  during  the 
eleven  years  I  have  trudged  beside 
her ;  it  is  only  24,000  miles  round  the 
world. 

After  a  year's  pilgrimage  we  found 
ourselves  at  Doncheray,  near  Sedan. 

Here  we  had  an  incident.  Mons. 
Huguet  was  showing  her  to  the  pub- 
lic with  the  air  of  a  prince  and  in  his 
Marechal  of  France  costume,  glitter- 
ing with  his  theatrical  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  He  was  not  par- 
ticular what  he  put  on,  so  that  it 
shone  and  looked  well.  He  sent  me 
for  something  connected  with  the  per- 
formance, —  a  pistol,  I  think.  I  had 
hardly  ten  steps  to  go,  but  during  the 
time  1  was  out  of  her  sight  I  heard  a 
man  cry  out  and  the  elephant  snort. 
I  ran  back  hallooing  as  I  came.  As 
I  ran  in  I  found  the  elephant  feeling 
for  something  in  the  straw  with  her 
foot,  and  the  people  rushing  out  of 
the  doors  in  dismay.  The  moment 
she  saw  me  she  affected  innocence, 
but  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  I 
drew  out  from  the  straw  a  thing  you 
would  have  taken  for  a  scarecrow  or 
a  bundle  of  rags  It  was  my  master, 
M.  Huguet,  his  glossy  hat  battered, 
his  glossy  coat  stained  and  torn,  and 
his  arm  broken  in  two  places  ;  a  mo- 
ment more  and  her  foot  would  have 
been  on  him,  and  his  soul  crushed 
out  of  his  body. 

The  people  were  surprised  when 
they  saw  the  furious  snorting  monster 
creep  into  a  corner  to  escape  a  little 
fellow  five  feet  four,  who  got  to  the 
old  weapon,  pitchfork,  and  drove  it 
into  every  part  of  her  but  her  head. 


She  hid  that  in  the  corner  the  mo- 
ment she  saw  blood  in  my  eye. 

We  got  poor  M.  Huguet  to  bed, 
and  a  doctor  from  the  hospital  to 
him,  and  a  sorrowful  time  he  had  of 
it;  and  so,  after  standing  good  for 
twelve  years,  lump  sugar  fell  to  the 
ground.  Pitchfork  held  good. 

At  night  more  than  a  hundred  peo- 
ple came  to  see  whether  I  was  reallv 
so  hardy  as  to  sleep  with  this  fero- 
cious animal.  To  show  them  my 
sense  of  her,  I  lay  down  between  her 
legs.  On  this  she  lifted  her  fore  feet 
singly,  and  with  the  utmost  care  and 
delicacy  drew  them  back  over  my 
body. 

As  soon  as  M.  Huguet's  arm  was 
set  and  doing  well,  he  followed  us 
(we  had  got  into  France  by  this 
time),  and  came  in  along  with  the 
public  to  admire  us,  and,  to  learn 
how  the  elephant  stood  affected  to- 
ward him  now,  he  cried  out,  in  his 
most  ingratiating  way,  —  in  sugared 
tones, —  "Djek,  my  boy!  Djek!" 
At  this  sound  Djek  raised  a  roar  of 
the  most  infernal  rage,  and  Huguet, 
who  knew  her  real  character  well 
enough,  though  he  pretended  not  to, 
comprehended  that  her  heart  was  now 
set  upon  his  extinction,  malgre  twelve 
years  of  lump  sugar. 

He  sent  for  me,  and  with  many 
expressions  of  friendship  offered  me 
the  invaluable  animal  for  thirty  thou- 
sand francs.  I  declined  her  without 
thanks.  "Then  I  shall  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  killing  her  to-morrow,"  said 
the  Frenchman,  "  and  what  will  be- 
come of  your  salary,  mon  pauvre 
gallon  ? " 

In  short,  he  had  me  in  a  fix,  and 
used  his  power.  I  bought  her  of  him 
for  20,000  francs,  to  be  paid  by  in- 
stalments. I  gave  him  the  first 
instalment,  a  five-franc  piece,  and 
walked  out  of  the  wine-shop  her  sole 
proprietor. 

The  sense  of  property  is  pleasant, 
even  when  we  have  not  paid  for  the 
article. 

That  night  I  formed  my  plans. 
There  was  no  time  to  lose,  because  I 


544 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


had  only  a  thousand  francs  in  the 
world,  and  she  ate  a  thousand  francs 
a  week,  or  nearly.  I  determined  to 
try  Germany,  —  a  poor  country,  but 
one  which,  being  quite  inland,  could 
not  have  become  callous  to  an  ele- 
phant, perhaps  had  never  seen  one. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  fine,  clear 
morning  I  started  on  my  own  ac- 
count. The  sun  was  just  rising,  the 
birds  were  tuning,  and  all  manner  of 
sweet  smells  came  from  the  fields  and 
the  hedges.  Djek  seemed  to  step  out 
more  majestically  than  when  she  was 
another  man's  ;  my  heart  beat  high. 
Eleven  years  ago  I  had  started  the 
meanest  of  her  slaves.  I  had  worked 
slowly,  painfully,  but  steadily  up,  and 
now  I  was  actually  her  lord  and  mas- 
ter, and  half  the  world  before  me  with 
the  sun  shining  on  it. 

The  first  town  I  showed  her  at  as 
mine  was  Verdun,  and  the  next  day  I 

wrote  to  Mademoiselle at  Paris 

to  tell  her  of  the  change  in  my  for- 
tunes. This  was  the  only  letter  I 
had  sent,  for  we  parted  bad  friends. 
I  received  a  kinder  answer  than  the 
abrupt  tone  of  my  letter  deserved. 
She  congratulated  me,  and  thanked 
me  for  remembering  that  whatever 
good  fortune  befell  me  must  give  her 
particular  pleasure,  and  in  the  post- 
script she  told  me  she  was  just  about 
to  leave  Paris  and  return  to  her  par- 
ents in  Switzerland. 

Djek  crossed  into  Prussia,  tramped 
that  country,  and  penetrated  into  the 
heart  of  Germany.  As  I  had  hoped, 
she  descended  on  this  nation  with  all 
the  charm  of  novelty,  and  used  to 
clear  the  copper*  out  of  a  whole  vil- 
lage. I  remember  early  in  this  trip 
being  at  a  country  inn.  I  saw  rus- 
tics, male  and  female,  dressed  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  coming  over  the  hills 
from  every  side  to  one  point.  I 
thought  there  must  be  a  fair  or  some- 
thing. I  asked  the  landlord  what 
they  were  all  coming  for.  He  said, 
"  Why,  you,  to  be  sure."  They  never 

*  Germany  i3  mostly  made  of  copper.  A 
bucketful  of  farthings  was  a  common  thing 
for  me  to  hare  in  my  carriage. 


saw  such  a  thing  in  their  lives,  and 
never  will  again. 

In  fact,  at  one  or  two  small  places 
we  were  stopped  by  the  authorities, 
who  had  heard  that  we  carried  more 
specie  out  of  little  towns  than  the 
circulating  medium  would  bear. 

In  short,  my  first  coup  was  success- 
ful. After  six  months'  Germany, 
Bavaria,  Prussia,  etc.,  I  returned  to 
the  Rhine  at  Strasbourg  with  eight 
thousand  francs.  During  all  this  time 
she  never  hurt  a  soul,  I  watched  her 
so  fearfully  close.  So,  being  debarred 
from  murder,  she  tried  arson. 

At  a  place  in  Bavaria  her  shed  was 
suddenly  observed  to  be  in  flames, 
and  wo  saved  her  with  difficulty. 

The  cause  never  transpired  until 
now,  but  I  saw  directly  how  it  had 
been  done.  I  had  unwarily  left  my 
coat  in  her  way.  The  pockets  were 
found  emptied  of  all  their  contents, 
among  which  was  a.  lucifer-box,  frag- 
ments of  which  I  found  among  the 
straw.  She  had  played  with  this  in 
her  trunk,  hammering  it  backward 
and  forward  against  her  knee,  drop- 
ping the  lighted  matches  into  the 
straw,  when  they  stung  her,  and  very 
nearly  roasted  her  own  beef,  the  mis- 
chievous, uneasy  devil. 

Sly  readers  will  not  travel  with  an 
elephant,  but  business  of  some  sort 
will  fall  to  the  lot  of  some  of  them 
soon  or  late,  and,  as  charlatanry  is  the 
very  soul  of  modern  business,  it  may 
not  be  amiss  to  show  how  the  humble 
artisan  worked  his  elephant. 

We  never  allowed  ourselves  to  drop 
casually  upon  any  place,  like  a  shower 
of  rain. 

A  man  in  bright  livery,  green  and 
gold,  mounted  on  a  showy  horse, 
used  to  ride  into  the  town  or  village, 
and  go  round  to  all  the  inns,  making 
loud  inquiries  about  their  means  of 
accommodation  for  the  elephant  and 
her  train.  Four  hours  after  him,  the 
people  being  now  a  little  agog,  anoth- 
er green  and  gold  man  came  in  on  a 
trained  horse,  and  inquired  for  No.  1. 
As  soon  as  he  had  found  him,  the  two 
rode  together  round  the  town,  —  No. 


JACK   OF  ALL  TRADES. 


345 


2  blowing  a  trumpet  and  proclaiming 
the  elephant ;  the  nations  she  had  in- 
structed in  the  wonders  of  nature ; 
the  kings  she  had  amused ;  her  gran- 
deur, her  intelligence,  and,  above  all, 
her  dovelike  disposition. 

This  was  allowed  to  ferment  for 
some  hours,  and,  when  expectation 
was  at  its  height,  the  rest  of  the  cav- 
alcade used  to  heave  in  sight,  Djek 
bringing  up  the  rear.  Arrived,  I 
used  to  shut  her  in  out  of  sight,  and 
send  all  my  men  and  horses  round, 
parading,  trumpeting,  and  pasting 
bills,  so  that  at  last  the  people  were 
quite  ripe  for  her,  and  then  we  went 
to  work ;  and  thus  the  humble  arti- 
san and  his  elephant  cut  a  greater 
dash  than  lions,  and  tigers,  and 
mountebanks,  and  quacks,  and  drew 
more  money. 

Here  is  one  of  my  programmes  : 
only  I  must  remark  that  I  picked  up 
my  French  where  I  picked  up  the  sin- 
cerity it  embodies,  in  the  circuses, 
coulisses,  and  cabarets  of  French 
towns,  so  that  I  can  patter  French  as 
fast  as  you  like ;  but,  of  course,  I 
know  no  more  about  it  than  a  pig,  — 
not  to  really  know  it. 

Par  permission  de  M.  le  Maire, 

Le  grand 

ELEPHANT 

du  Roi  do  Siam, 

Du  Cirque  Olympiquc  Franconi. 

Mile.  Djek, 

Elephant  colossal,  de  onze  pieds  de 
hauteur  et  du  poids  de  neuf  mille 
liv.,  est  le  plus  grand  e'le'phant  qui 
Ton  ait  vu  en  Europe. 

M.  H.  B.  Lott,  naturalists,  pour- 
voyeur  des  menageries  des  diverses 
cours  d'Europe,  actionnaire  du  Cirque 
Olympique  et  proprietaire  de  ce  mag- 
nifique  elephant,  qu'il  a  dresse  au 
point  de  le  presenter  au  public  dans 
une  piece  theatrale  qui  fut  cree'e  pour 
Madllo.  Djek  il  y  a  trois  ans  et  demi, 
et  qui  a  eu  un  si  grand  succes,  sous  le 
nom  de  1' Elephant  du  Roi  de  Siam. 

Le  proprietaire,  dans  son  voyage 
autour  du  monde,  cut  occasion  d'ache- 
ter  cet  enorme  quadrupede,  qui  le  prit 
15* 


en  affection,  et  qui,  depuis  onzc  ans 
qu'il  le  possede,  ne  s'est  jamais  demen- 
ti, se  plait  a  eeouter  son  maitrc  et  ex- 
ecute avec  punctualite  tout  ce  qu'il 
lui  indique  dc  faire. 

Mile.  Djek,  qui  est  dans  toute  la 
force  de  sa  taillc,  a  maintenant  cent 
vingt-cinq  ans  ;  elle  a  onze  pieds  de 
hauteur  —  et  peso  ncuf  mille  livres. 

Sa  consommation  dans  les  vingt- 
quatre  heures  excedc  deux  cent  livres 
—  quarantc  livres  de  pain  pour  son 
dejeuner ;  a  midi,  du  son  et  de  1'a- 
voine ;  le  soir,  des  pommes  de  terre 
ou  du  rizcuit :  et  la  nuit  du  foin  et  de 
la  paille. 

C'est  le  meme  ele'phant  qui  a  com- 
battu  la  lionne  dc  M.  Martin.  Cette 
lionne  en  furie,  qu'unc  imprudence  fit 
sortir  de  sa  cage,  s'e'lance  sur  M.  H.  B. 
Lott  qui  se  trouvait  aupres  de  son  e'le'- 
•phant ;  voyant  le  danger  il  se  re'fugie 
derriere  une  des  jambes  de  ce  bon 
animal,  qui  releve  sa  trompe  pour  le 
proteger.*  La  lionne  allait  saisir 
M.  H.  B.  Lott ;  1'e'le'phant  la  voit,  ra- 
bat  sa  trompe,  1'enveloppe,  1'etouffe, 
la  jcttc  au  loin,  et  1'anrait  e'crase"e,  si 
son  maitre  ne  lui  cut  dit  de  ne  pas 
con  tinner. 

Elle  a  ensuite  allonge"  sa  trompe, 
frappc  du  pied,  criant  et  temoi- 
gnant  la  satisfaction,  qu'elle  eprouvait 
d'avoir  sauve'  son  ami  d'une  mort  cer- 
taine,  comme  on  a  pu  voir  dans  Ie8 
journaux  en  fe'vrier  1832. 

Dans  les  cours  des  seances,  on  lui 
fera  faire  tous  ses  grands  exercices 
qui  sont  dignes  d'admiration,  dont  le 
grand  nombre  ne  permet  pas  d'en 
donner  1'analyse  dans  cette  affiche,  et 
qu'il  faut  voir  pour  Ten  faire  une 
ide'e  juste. 

Prix  d'entrec :  Premieres 
Secondes  Les   militaires  et  les 

enfants,  moitie. 

I  don't  think  but  what  my  country- 
men will  understand  every  word  of 
the  above ;  but,  as  there  are  a  great 

*  I  am  a  dull  fellow  now,  as  you  see.  But 
you  must  allow  I  have  been  a  man  of  imagi- 
nation. 


346 


JACK   OF  ALL  TRADES. 


number  of  Frenchmen  in  London 
who  will  read  this,  I  think  it  would 
look  unkind  not  to  translate  it  into 
English  for  their  benefit. 

By  permission  of  the  Worshipful  the 

Mayor, 

the  great 

ELEPHAXT 

of  the  King  of  Siam, 

from  Franconi's  Olympic  Circus. 

Mademoiselle  Djck, 
Colossal   Elephant,  eleven  feet   high 
and  weighs  nine  thousand  pounds. 
The  largest  elephant  ever  seen  in 
Europe. 

Mr.  H.  B.  Lott,  naturalist,  who 
supplies  the  menageries  of  the  various 
courts  of  Europe,  shareholder  in  the 
Olympic  Circus,  and  proprietor  of 
this  magnificent  elephant,  which  he 
has  trained  to  such  a  height  that  he 
will  present  her  to  the  public  in  a  dra- 
matic piece  which  was  written  for  her 
three  years  and  a  half  ago,  and  had 
a  great  success  under  the  title  of  the 
Elephant  of  the  King  of  Siam.* 

The  proprietor,  in  his  voyage  round 
the  globe,  was  fortunate  enough  to 
purchase  this  enormous  quadruped, 
which  became  attached  to  him,  and 
has  been  eleren  years  in  his  posses- 
sion, during  which  time  she  has  never 
once  forgotten  herself,  and  executes 
with  obedient  zeal  whatever  he  bids 
her. 

Mile.  Djek  has  now  arrived  at  her 
full  growth,  being  one  hundred  and 
twenty-five  years  of  age ;  she  is  eleven 
feet  high,  and  weighs  nine  thousand 
pounds.  Her  daily  consumption  ex- 
ceeds two  hundred  pounds.  She  takes 
forty  pounds  of  bread  for  her  break- 
fast, at  noon  barley  and  oats,  in  the 
evening  potatoes  or  rice  cooked,  and 
at  night  hay  and  straw. 

*  My  literary  gent  and  me  nearly  had 
words  over  this  bit.  "  Why,  it  is  all  nomina- 
tive case,"  says  he.  "  Well,"  says  I,  "you 
can't  have  too  much  of  a  pood  thing.  Can 
you  better  it  ?  "  says  I.  "  Better  It !  "  says 
he  ;  "  why,  I  could  not  have  come  within  a 
miie  of  it  •'  ;  and  he  grinned.  So  I  shut  him 
up  —  for  once. 


This  is  the  same  elephant  that  fought; 
with  Mr.  Martin's  lioness.  The  lion- 
ess, whom  the  carelessness  of  the  at- 
tendants allowed  to  escape  from  her 
cage,  dashed  furiously  at  Mr.  H.  B. 
Lott ;  fortunately  he  was  near  his  ele- 
phant, and,  seeing  the  danger,  took 
refuge  behind  one  of  the  legs  of  that 
valuable  animal.  She  raised  her 
trunk  in  her  master's  defence.  The 
lioness  made  to  seize  him  ;  but  the 
elephant  lowered  her  trunk,  seized 
the  lioness,  choked  her,  flung  her  a 
distance,  and  would  have  crushed  her 
to  death  if  Mr.  Lott  had  not  com- 
manded her  to  desist.  After  that  she 
extended  her  trunk,  stamped  with  her 
foot,  trumpeting  and  showing  her  sat- 
isfaction at  having  saved  her  friend 
from  certain  death,  full  accounts  of 
which  are  to  be  seen  in  the  journals  . 
of  February,  1832. 

In  the  course  of  the  exhibition  she 
will  go  through  all  her  exercises, 
which  are  wonderful,  and  so  numer- 
ous that  it  is  impossible  to  enumerate 
them  in  this  bill :  they  must  be  seen 
to  form  a  just  idea  of  them. 

Prices  :  First  places        Second 
Soldiers  and  children  half  price. 

Djck  and  I  used  to  make  our  bow 
to  our  audiences  in  the  following  fash- 
ion. I  came  on  with  her,  and  said, 
"  Otez  mon  chapeau  pour  saluer  " ; 
then  she  used  to  take  off  my  hat,  wave 
it  gracefully,  and  replace  it  on  my 
head.  She  then  proceeded  to  pick  up 
twenty  five-franc  pieces,  one  after  an- 
other, and  keep  them  piled  in  the  ex- 
tremity of  her  trunk.  She  also  fired 
pistols,  and  swept  her  den  with  a 
broom,  in  a  most  painstaking  and  lu- 
dicrous way. 

But  perhaps  her  best  business  in  a 
real  judge's  eye  was  drinking  a  bottle 
of  wine.  The  reader  will  better  esti- 
mate this  feat  if  he  will  fancy  himself 
an  elephant,  and  lay  down  the  book 
now,  and  ask  himself  how  he  would  do 
it,  and  read  the  following  afterward. 

The  bottle  (cork  drawn)  stood  be- 
fore her.  She  placed  the  finger  and 
thumb  of  her  proboscis  on  the  mouth, 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


347 


made  a  vacuum  by  suction,  and  then, 
suddenly  inverting  the  bottle,  she  re- 
ceived the  contents  in  her  trunk.  The 
difficulty  now  was  to  hold  the  bottle, 
which  she  would  not  have  broken  for 
a  thousand  pounds  (my  lady  thought 
lesS  of  killing  ten  men  than  breaking 
a  saucer),  and  yet  not  let  the  liquor 
run  from  her  flesh-pipe.  She  rapidly 
shifted  her  hold  to  the  centre  of  the 
bottle,  and  worked  it  by  means  of  the 
wrinkles  in  her  proboscis  to  the  bend 
of  it.  Then  she  griped  it,  and  at  the 
same  time  curled  round  her  trunk  to 
a  sloping  position,  and  let  the  wine 
run  down  her  throat.  This  done,  she 
resumed  the  first  position  of  her  trunk 
and  worked  the  bottle  back  toward 
her  finger,  suddenly  snapped  hold  of 
it  by  the  neck,  and  handed  it  grace- 
fully to  me. 

With  this  exception,  it  was  not  her 
public  tricks  that  astonished  me  most. 
The  principle  of  all  these  tricks  is  one. 
An  animal  is  taught  to  lay  hold  of 
things  at  command,  and  to  shift  them 
from  one  place  to  another.  You  vary 
the  thing  to  be  laid  hold  of,  but  the 
act  is  the  same.  In  her  drama,  which 
was  so  effective  on  the  stage,  Djek  did 
nothing  out  of  the  way.  She  merely 
went  through  certain  mechanical  acts 
at  a  word  of  command  from  her  keep- 
er, who  was  unseen  or  unnoticed  ;  i.  e. 
he  was  either  at  the  wing  in  his  fustian 
jacket,  or  on  the  stage  with  her  in  gim- 
crack  and  gold,  as  one  of  a  lot  of  slaves 
or  courtiers,  or  what  not.  Between 
ourselves,  a  single  trick  I  have  several 
times  caught  her  doing  on  her  own  ac- 
count proved  more  for  her  intelligence 
than  all  these.  She  used  to  put  her 
eye  to  a  keyhole.  Ay,  that  she  would, 
and  so  watch  for  hours  to  see  what 
devil's  trick  she  could  do  with  impu- 
nity, —  she  would  see  me  out  of  the 
way,  and  then  go  to  work.  Where 
there  was  no  keyhole  I  have  seen  her 
pick  the  knot  out  of  a  deal  board,  and 
squint  through  the  little  hole  she  had 
thus  made. 

A  dog  comes  next  to  an  elephant, 
but  he  is  not  up  to  looking  through  a 
keyhole  or  a  crack.  He  can  think  of 


nothing  better  than  snuffing  tinder  the 
door. 

At  one  place,  being  under  a  grana- 
ry, she  worked  a  hole  in  the  ceiling  no 
bigger  than  a  thimble,  and  sucked 
down  sackfuls  of  grain  before  she  was 
found  out.  Talk  of  the  half-reasoning 
elephant :  she  seldom  met  a  man  that 
could  match  her  in  reasoning,  —  to  a 
bad  end.  Her  weak  points  were  her 
cruelty  and  cowardice,  and  by  this  lat- 
ter Tom  Elliot  and  I  governed  her 
with  a  rod  of  iron,  vulgarly  called  a 
pitchfork.  If  a  mouse  pattered  about 
the  floor  in  her  stable,  Djek  used  to 
tremble  all  over,  and  whine  with  ter- 
ror till  the  little  monster  was  gone. 
A  ton  shaken  by  an  ounce. 

I  have  seen  her  start  back  in  dismay 
from  a  small  feather  floating  in  the 
air.  If  her  heart  had  been  as  stout  as 
her  will  to  do  mischief  was  strong, 
mankind  must  have  risen  to  put  her 
down. 

Almost  all  you  have  ever  heard 
about  the  full-grown  elephant's  char- 
acter is  a  pack  of  falsities.  They  are 
your  servants  by  fear,  or  they  are  your 
masters.  Two  years  ago  an  elephant 
killed  his  keeper  at  Liverpool  or  Man- 
chester, I  forget  which.  Out  came 
the  "  Times  "  :  he  had  pronged  him 
six  weeks  before.  How  well  I  knew 
the  old  lie  ;  it  seldom  varies  a  syllable. 
That  man  died,  not  because  he  had 
pronged  the  animal,  but  because  ho 
had  n't,  or  not  enough. 

Spare  the  pitchfork,  spoil  the  ele- 
phant. 

There  is  another  animal  people  mis- 
construe just  as  bad,  —  the  hyena. 

Terrible  fierce  animal,  the  hyena, 
says  Buffon  and  Co.,  and  the  world 
echoes  the  chant. 

Fierce,  are  they  ?  Yon  get  a  score 
of  them  together  in  a  yard,  and  you 
shall  see  me  walk  into  the  lot  with 
nothing  but  a  switch,  and  them  try  to 
get  between  the  brick  and  the  mortar 
with  the  funk,  —  that  is  how  fierce  they 
are ;  and  they  are  not  only  cowardly, 
but  innocent,  and  affectionate  into  the 
bargain,  is  the  fierce  hyena  of  Buffon 
i  and  Co.  ;  but,  indeed,  wild  animals 


348 


JACK  OF   ALL  TRADES. 


are  sadly  misunderstood ;  it  is  pitia- 
ble ;  and  those  that  have  the  best 
character  deserve  it  less  than  those 
that  have  the  worst 

In  one  German   town  I  met  with 
something  I  should  like   to   tell  the 
sporting  gents,  for  I  don't  think  there 
is  many  that  ever  fell  in  with  such  a 
thing.     But  it  is   an  old  saying  that 
what  does  happen  has  happened  before 
and  may  again,  so  I  tell  this  to  put 
them  on  their  guard,   especially  in 
Germany.     Well,  it  was  a  good  town 
for  business,  and  we  stayed   several 
days  ;  but  before  we  had  been  there 
many  hours  my  horses  turned  queer. 
Restless     they    were,     and     uneasy. 
Sweated  of  their  own  accord.  Stamped 
eternally.     One,  in  particular,  began 
to  lose  flesh.     We  examined  the  hay.  | 
It  seemed  particularly  good,  and  the  • 
oats  not  amiss.  Called  the  landlord  in,  | 
and  asked  him  if  he  could  account  for 
it.     He  stands  looking  at  them  ;  this 
one,  called  Dick,  was  all  in  a  lather. 
"  Well,  I  think  I  know  now,"  said  he  ; 
"  they  are  bewitched.     You  see  there 
is  an  old  woman  in  the  next   street 
that  bewitches  cattle,  and  she  rides  on 
your  horses'  backs  all  night,  you  may 
take  your  oath."     Then  he  tells  us  a 
lot  of  stories,  whose  cow  died  after 
giving  this  old  wench  a  rough  word, 
and  how  she  had  been  often  seen  to  go 
across  the  meadows  in  the  shape  of  a 
hare.     "  She  has  a  spite  against  me, 
the  old  sorceress,"  says  he.     "  She 
has  been  at  them  :  you  had  better  send 
for  the  pastor."     "  Go  for  the  farrier,  | 
Jem,"  says  L     So  we  had  in  the  far-  j 
rier.     He  sat  on  the  bin  and  smoked 
his  pipe  in  dead   silence,  looking  at 
them.     "  They  seem  a  little  fidgety," 
says  he,  after  about 'half  an  hour.     So 
I  turned  him  out  of  the  stable.     And  I 
was  in  two  minds  about  punching  his  J 
head,  I  was.     "  Send  for  the  veteri-  j 
nary    surgeon,    No.   1."    He    came,  j 
"  They  have  got  some  disorder,"  says  i 
he,  "  that  is  plain ;  nostrils  are  clear, 
too.    Let  me   see  them  eat."     They  | 
took  their  food  pretty  well.     Then  he 
asked  where  we  came  from  last.     I 
told  him.     "  Well,"  said  he,  cheerful- 


ly, "  this  is  a  murrain,  I  think.  In  this 
country  we  do  invent  a  new  murrain 
about  every  twenty  years.  We  are 
about  due  now."  He  spoke  English, 
this  one, — quite  a  fine  gentleman. 
One  of  the  grooms  put  in,  "  I  think 
the  water  is  poisoned."  "Any  waV," 
says  another,  "  Dick  will  die  if  we  stay 
here."  So  then  they  both  pressed  me 
to  leave  the  town.  "  You  know,  gov- 
ernor, we  can't  afford  to  lose  the 
horses."  Now  I  was  clearing  ten 
pounds  a  day  in  the  place,  and  all  ex- 
penses paid  :  so  I  looked  blank.  So 
did  the  veterinary.  "  I  would  n't  go," 
says  he ;  "  wait  a  day  or  two  ;  then 
the  disease  will  declare  itself,  and 
we  shall  know  what  we  are  doing." 
You  see,  gents,  he  did  not  relish  my 
taking  a  murrain  out  of  his  town  ;  he 
was  a  veterinary.  "  Whatever  it  is," 
says  he,  "  you  brought  it  with  you." 
"  Well,  now,"  said  I,  "  my  opinion  is 
I  found  it  here.  Did  you  notice  any- 
thing at  the  last  place,  Nick  ? " 
"  No  "  :  the  grooms  both  bore  me  out. 
"  Oh !  "  says  the  vet.,  "  you  can't  go 
by  that :  it  had  not  declared  itself." 
Well,  if  you  will  believe  me  (I  often 
laugh  when  I  think  of  it),  it  was  not 
two  minutes  after  he  said  that  that  it 
did  declare  itself.  It  was  Sunday  morn- 
ing, and  Nick  had  got  a  clean  shirt  on. 
Nick  was  currying  the  very  horse 
called  Dick,  when  all  of  a  sudden  the 
sleeve  of  his  white  shirt  looked  dirty. 
"What  now?"  cries  he,  and  comes 
to  the  light.  "  I  do  believe  it  is  ver- 
min," says  he,  "  and  if  it  is  they  are 
eaten  up  with  it."  "Vermin?  What 
vermin  can  that  be?"  said  I;  "have  we 
invented  a  new  vermin,  too  ?  "  They 
were  no  bigger  than  pins'  points, — 
looked  like  dust  on  his  shirt.  "  What 
do  you  say,  sir,  —  is  it  vermin  ?  " 
"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  says  the  vet. 
"  These  are  poultry-lice,  unless  I  am 
mistaken.  Have  you  any  hens  any- 
where near  ? "  Both  the  grooms 
burst  out,  "  Hens  ?  why,  there  are  full 
a  hundred  up  in  the  hay-loft"  So 
that  was  the  murrain.  The  hens  had 
been  tumbling  in  the  hay ;  the  hay 
came  down  to  the  rack  all  alive  with 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


349 


their  vermin ;  and  the  vermin  were 
eating  the  horses.  We  stopped  that 
supply  of  hay  ;  and  what  with  curry- 
ing, and  washing  with  a  solut.  the  vet. 
gave  us,  we  cured  that  murrain,  — 
chicken-pox,  if  any.  We  had  a  little 
scene  at  going  away  from  this  place. 
Landlord  had  agreed  to  charge  noth- 
ing for  the  use  of  stabling,  we  spent  so 
much  in  other  ways  with  him.  In 
spite  of  that,  he  put  it  down  at  the 
foot  of  the  list.  I  would  not  pay. 
"  You  must."  "  I  won't."  "  Then 
you  sha'  n't  go  till  you  do  " ;  and  with 
that  he  and  his  servants  closed  the 
great  gates.  The  yard  was  entered 
by  two  great  double  doors  like  barn 
doors,  secured  outside  by  a  stout  beam. 
So  there  he  had  us  fast.  It  got  wind, 
and  there  was  the  whole  population 
hooting  outside,  three  thousand  strong. 
Then  it  was,  "  Come,  don't  be  a  fool." 

"  Don't  you  be  a  fool." 

"  Stand  clear,"  said  I  to  the  man  ; 
"  we  will  alter  our  usual  line  of  march 
this  time ;  I  '11  take  Djek  from  the 
rear  to  the  front."  So  they  all  formed 
behind  me  and  Djek,  two  carriages, 
and  six  horses,  all  in  order.  "  Now," 
said  I,  "  landlord,  you  have  had  your 
joke,  open  the  door,  and  let  us  part 
friends ;  we  have  been  with  you  a 
week,  you  know,  and  you  have  had 
one  profit  out  of  us,  and  another  out 
of  the  townsfolk  we  brought  to  your 
bar.  Open  the  door." 

"  Pay  me  my  bill,  and  I  '11  open," 
says  he.  "  If  I  turned  away  one  trav- 
eller from  my  stable  for  you  I  've 
turned  away  twenty." 

"A  bargain  is  a  bargain.  Will 
you  open  before  she  knocks  your  door 
into  toothpicks  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  '11  risk  my  door  if  you  '11 
risk  your  beast.  No,  I  won't  open 
till  I  am  paid." 

"  Once,  will  you  open  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Twice,  will  you  open  ?   Thrice  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Djek  —  Go ! " 

She  walked  lazily  at  the  door,  as  if 
she  did  not  see  it.  The  moment  she 
touched  it  both  doors  were  in  the 


road ;  the  beam  was  in  half  in  the 
road.  Most  times  one  thing  stands, 
another  goes  ;  here  it  all  went  bodily 
on  all  sides  like  paper  on  a  windy 
day,  and  the  people  went  fastest  of  all. 
There  was  the  yell  of  a  multitude  un- 
der our  noses,  then  an  empty  street 
under  our  eyes.  We  marched  on  calm, 
majestical,  and  unruffled,  beneath  the 
silent  night. 

Doors  and  bolts,  indeed,  to  a  lady 
that  had  stepped  through  a  brick  wall 
before  that  day,  —  an  English  brick 


wall. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


FROM  Strasbourg  I  determined  to 
go  into  Switzerland ;  above  all,  to 
Geneva.  I  could  not  help  it.  la 
due  course  of  time  and  travel  I  ar- 
rived near  Geneva,  and  sent  forward 
my  green  and  gold  avant-couriers  j 
but,  alas  !  they  returned  with  the 
doleful  news  that  elephants  were  not 
admitted  into  that  ancient  city.  The 
last  elephant  that  had  been  there  had 
done  mischief,  and,  at  the  request  of 
its  proprietor,  Madlle.  Gamier,  a 
young  lady  whose  conscience  smote 
her,  for  she  had  another  elephant  that 
killed  one  or  two  people  in  Venice, 
was  publicly  executed  in  the  fortress.* 

Fortunately  (as  I  then  thought),  I 
had  provided  myself  with  testimonials 
from  the  mayor  and  governors  of 
some  score  of  towns  through  which 
we  had  passed.  I  produced  these,  and 
made  friends  in  the  town,  particularly 
with  a  Dr.  Mayo.  At  last  we  were 
admitted.  Djek  was  proved  a  dove 
by  such  overpowering  testimony.  I 
had  now  paid  M.  Huguet  six  thousand 
francs  and  found  myself  possessed  of 
five  thousand  more.  Business  was 
very  good  in  Geneva.  Djek  was  very 
popular.  Her  intelligence  and  amia- 
bility became  a  by-word.  I  had  but 
one  bitter  disappointment,  though. 

*  They  gave  this  elephant  an  ounce  of 
prussic  acid  and  an  ounce  of  arsenic  ;  neither 
of  these  sedatives  producing  any  effect,  they 
fired  a  cauuoii-ball  through  lier  neck. 


350 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


Madlle. never  came  to  see  us,  and  | 

I  was  too  sulky  and  too  busy  to  hunt 
for  her.  Besides,  I  said  to  myself, 
"  All  the  world  can  find  me,  and  if 
she  cared  a  button  for  me  she  would 
come  to  light."  I  tried  to  turn  it  off 
with  the  old  song, 

"  Now  get  ye  gone,  ye  scornful  dame  ; 
If  you  are  proud,  I  '11  be  the  same. 
I  make  no  doubt  that  I  shall  find 
As  pretty  a  girl  unto  my  mind." 

Behold  me  now  at  the  climax  of 
prosperity,  dressed  like  a  gentleman, 
driving  a  pair  of  horses,  proprietor  of 
a  whole  cavalcade  and  of  an  elephant, 
and,  after  clearing  all  expenses,  mak- 
ing at  the  rate  of  full  £  600  per  annum,  j 
There  was  a  certain  clergyman  of  the 
place  used  to  visit  us  about  every  day,  ' 
and  bring  her  cakes  and  things  to  eat, 
till  he  got  quite  fond  of  her,  and  be- 
lieved that  she  returned  his  affection,  j 
I  used  to  beg  him  not  to  go  so  close  j 
to  her.     On  this,  his    answer  was,  j 
"  Why,  you  say  she  is  harmless  as  a 
chicken  "  ;  so  then  I  had  no  more  to  I 
say.     Well,  one  unlucky  day  I  turned  ! 
iny  back  for  a  moment ;    before  I ; 
could  get  back  there   were  the  old 
sounds,  a  snort  of  rage,  and  a  cry  of 
terror,  and  there  was  the  poor  minis- 
ter in  her  trunk.     At  sight  of  me  she  j 
dropped  him,  but  two  of  his  ribs  were  ' 
broken,  and  he  was  quite  insensible,  | 
and  the  people  rushed  out  in  terror. 
We  raised  the  clergyman  and  carried 
him  home,  and  in  half  an  hour  a  mob 
was  before  the  door,  and  stones  as  big  ' 
as  your  fists  thrown  in  at  the  win-  j 
dows  :  this,  however,  was  stopped  by 
the  authorities.     But  the  next  day  my  : 
lady  was  arrested  and  walked  off  to  ! 
the  fortress,   and   there  confined.    I 
remonstrated,  expostulated,  in  vain. 
I  had  now  to  feed  her  and  no  return  \ 
from  her :  ruin  stared  me  in  the  face. 
So  I  went  to  law  with  the  authorities. 
Law  is  slow,  and  Djek  was  eating  all 
the  time,     lluin  looked  nearer  still. 
The  law  ate  my  green  and  gold  ser- 
vants and  horses,  and  still  Djek  re- 
mained in  quod.     Then  I  refused  to 
feed  her  any  longer,  and  her  expenses 
fell  upon  the  town.     Her  appetite  and 


their  poverty  sobn  brought  matters  to 
a  climax.  They  held  a  sort  of  mu- 
nicipal tribunal,  and  tried  her  for  an 
attempt  at  homicide.  I  got  counsel  to 
defend  her,  for  I  distrusted  my  own 
temper  and  French. 

I  can't  remember  half  the  fine  things 
he  said,  but  there  was  one  piece  of 
common  sense  I  do  remember.  He 
said  :  "  The  animal,  I  believe,  is  un- 
conscious .of  her  great  strength,  and 
has  committed  a  fatal  error  rather 
than  a  crime ;  still,  if  you  think  she  is 
liable  to  make  such  errors,  let  her  die 
rather  than  kill  men.  But  how  do 
you  reconcile  to  your  consciences  to 
punish  her  proprietor,  to  rob  him  of 
his  subsistence?  He  has  committed 
no  crime,  he  has  been  guilty  of  no 
want  of  caution.  If,  therefore,  you 
take  upon  yourselves  to  punish  the 
brute,  be  honest !  buy  her  of  the  man 
first,  and  then  assert  your  sublime 
office,  —  destroy  an  animal  that  has 
offended  morality.  But  a  city  should 
be  above  wronging  or  robbing  an  in- 
dividual." When  he  sat  down  I 
thought  my  homicide  was  safe,  for  I 
knew  Geneva  could  not  afford  to  buy 
an  elephant  without  it  was  out  of  a 
Noah's  ark. 

But  up  gets  an  orator  on  the  other 
side  and  attacked  me  ;  accused  me  of 
false  representations,  of  calling  a  de- 
mon a  duck.  "  We  have  certain  in- 
formation from  France  that  this  ele- 
phant has  been  always  wounding  and 
killing  men  up  and  down  Europe 
these  twenty  years.  Mons.  Lott 
knew  this  by  universal  report,  and 
by  being  an  eye-witness  of  more  than 
one  man's  destruction."  Here  there 
was  a  sensation,  I  can  tell  you.  "  He 
has,  therefore,  forfeited  all  claims  to 
consideration."  Then  he  thundered 
out :  "  Let  no  man  claim  to  be  wiser 
than  Holy  Writ ;  there  we  are  told 
that  a  lie  is  a  crime  of  the  very  deep- 
est dye,  and  here  we  see  how  for  years 
falsehood  has  been  murder."  Then  I 
mind  he  took  just  the  opposite  line  to 
my  defender.  Says  he  :  "  If  I  hesitate 
for  a  moment,  it  is  not  for  the  man's 
sake,  but  for  the  brute's ;  but  I  do  not 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


351 


hesitate.  I  could  wish  so  majestic  a 
creature  might  be  spared  for  our  in- 
struction," says  he,  "  that  so  wonder- 
ful a  specimen  of  the  Creator's  skill 
might  still  walk  the  earth;  but  rea- 
son, and  justice,  and  humanity  say 
'  No.'  There  is  an  animal  far  small- 
er, yet  ten  times  more  important,  for 
he  has  a  soul ;  and  this,  the  king  of 
all  the  animals,  is  not  safe  while  she 
lives ;  therefore  she  ought  to  die. 
Weaker  far  than  her  in  his  individ- 
ual strength,  he  is  a  thousand  times 
stronger  by  combination  and  science, 
—  therefore  she  will  die." 

When  this  infernal  chatterbox  shut 
up,  my  heart  sunk  into  my  shoes.  He 
was  a  prig,  but  an  eloquent  one,  and 
he  walked  into  Djek  and  me  till  we 
were  not  worth  half  an  hour's  pur- 
chase. 

For  all  that,  the  council  did  not 
come  to  a  decision  on  the  spot,  and  I 
believe  that  if  Djek  had  but  been  con- 
tent to  kill  the  laity  as  heretofore,  we 
should  have  scraped  through  with  a 
fine  ;  but  the  fool  must  go  and  tear 
black  cloth,  and  dig  her  own  grave. 

Two  days  after  the  trial,  out  came 
the  sentence,  —  Death  ! 

With  that  modesty  and  good  feel- 
ing which  belongs  to  most  foreign 
governments,  they  directed  me  to  exe- 
cute their  sentence. 

My  answer  came  in  English.  "  I  '11 
see  you  d — d,  and  double  d — d  first, 
and  then  I  won't." 

Meantime  Huguet  was  persecuting 
poor  heart-sick  me  for  the  remainder 
of  her  purchase  -  money,  and,  what 
with  the  delay,  the  expenses,  and  the 
anxiety,  I  was  so  down  and  so  at  the 
end  of  my  wits  and  my  patience,  that 
her  sentence  fell  on  me  like  a  blow  on 
a  chap  that  is  benumbed,  —  produced 
less  effect  upon  me  at  the  time  than  it 
does  when  I  think  of  it  now. 

Well,  —  curse  them  !  —  one  fine 
morning  they  ran.  a  cannon  up  to  the 
gate,  loaded  it  and  bade  me  call  the 
elephant,  and  bring  her  into  a  favora- 
ble position  for  being  shot.  I  refused 
point-blank  in  English  as  before. 
They  threatened  me  for  my  contuma- 


cy. I  answered  they  might  shoot  me 
if  they  liked,  but  I  would  not  be  the 
one  to  destroy  my  own  livelihood. 

So  they  had  tp  watch  their  oppor- 
tunity. 

It  was  not  long  of  coming. 

She  began  to  walk  about,  and  pres- 
ently the  poor  fool  marched  right  up 
to  the  cannon's  mouth,  and  squinted 
down  it.  Then  she  turned,  and  at 
last  she  crossed  right  before  it.  The 
gunner  took  the  opportunity,  applied 
his  linstock,  and  fired.  There  was  a 
great  tongue  of  flame,  and  a  cloud  of 
smoke*  and  through  the  smoke  some- 
thing as  big  as  a  house  was  seen  to  go 
down  ;  the  very  earth  trembled  at  the 
shock. 

The  smoke  cleared  in  a  moment, 
and  there  lay  Djek.  She  never  moved. 
The  round  shot  went  clean  through 
her  body,  and  struck  the  opposite  wall 
with  great  force.  It  was  wonderful 
and  sad  to  see  so  huge  a  creature 
robbed  of  her  days  in  a  moment  by  a 
spark.  There  she  lay,  —  poor  Djek. 

In  one  moment  I  forgot  all  her 
faults.  She  was  an  old  companion  of 
mine  in  many  a  wet  day  and  dreary 
night.  She  was  reputation  to  me,  and 
a  clear  six  hundred  a  year ;  and  then 
she  was  so  clever  !  We  shall  never  see 
her  like  again  ;  and  there  she  lay.  I 
mourned  over  her,  right  or  wrong,  and 
have  never  been  the  same  man  since 
that  shot  was  fired. 

The  butchery  done,  I  was  informed 
by  the  municipal  authorities  that  the 
carcass  was  considered,  upon  the 
whole,  to  be  my  property.  The  next 
moment  I  had  two  hundred  applica- 
tions for  elephant  steaks  from  the 
pinch-gut  natives,  who,  I  believe, 
knew  gravy  by  tradition  and  romances 
that  had  come  all  the  way  from  Paris. 
Knives  and  scales  went  to  work,  and, 
with  the  tears  running  down  my 
cheeks,  I  sold  her  beef  at  four  sous 
per  pound  for  about  £  40  sterling. 

This  done,  all  my  occupation  was 
gone.  Geneva  was  no  place  for  me, 
and  as  the  worthy  Huguet,  whose  life 
I  had  saved,  threatened  to  arrest  me, 
I  determined  to  go  back  to  England 


rS52 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


and  handicraft.  Two  days  after  Djek's 
death  I  was  hanging  sorrowfully  over 
the  bridge,  when  some  one  drew  near 
to  me  and  said,  in  a  low  voice,  Mons. 
Lott.  I  had  no  need  to  look  up.  I 
knew  the  voice;  it  was  my  lost  sweet- 
heart. She  spoke  very  kindly,  blushed, 
and  welcomed  me  to  her  native  coun- 
try. She  did  more ;  she  told  me  she 
lived  five  miles  from  Geneva,  and  in- 
vited me  to  visit  her  mother.  She 
took  occasion  to  let  me  know  that  her 
father  was  dead :  "  My  mother  re- 
fuses me  nothing,"  she  added,  with 
another  blush.  This  was  all  like  a 
dream  to  me.  The  next  day  f  visited 
her  and  her  mother,  and  was  cordially 
received  ;  in  short,  it  was  made  clear 
to  me  that  my  misfortune  had  en- 
deared me  to  this  gem  of  a  girl  in- 
stead of  repelling  her.  An  uncle,  too, 
had  died,  and  left  her  three  hundred 
pounds,  and  this  made  her  bolder 
still ;  and  she  did  not  conceal  her  re- 
gard for  me.  She  told  me  she  had 
seen  me  once  in  Geneva  driving  two 
showy  horses  in  a  carriage,  and  look- 
ing like  a  nobleman,  and  so  had  hesi- 
tated to  claim  the  acquaintance ;  but 
hearing  the  elephant's  execution,  and 
guessing  that  I  could  no  longer  be  on 
the  high-road  to  for  tune;  she  had  obeyed 
her  heart,  and  been  the  first  to  remind 
me  I  had  once  esteemed  her. 

In  short,  a  Pearl. 

I  made  her  a  very  bad  return  for  so 
much  goodness.  I  wenf  and  married 
her.  We  then  compounded  with  Hu- 
guet  for  three  thousand  francs,  and 
sailed  for  England  to  begin  the  world 
again. 

The  moment  I  got  to  London,  I 
made  for  the  Seven  Dials  to  see  my 
friend  Paley. 

On  the  way  I  met  a  mutual  ac- 
quaintance ;  told  him  where  I  was  go- 
ing, —  red-hot. 

He  shook  his  head  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

A  chill  came  over  me.  If  you  had 
stuck  a  knife  in  me  I  should  n't  have 
bled.  I  gasped  out  some  sort  of  in- 
quiry. 

"  Why,  you  know  he  was  not  a 


young  man,"  says  he ;  and  he  looked 
down. 

That  was  enough  for  such  an  un- 
lucky one  as  me.  I  began  to  cry  di- 
rectly. "Don't  ye  take  on,"  says  he. 
"  Old  man  died  happy.  Come  home 
with  me  ;  my  wife  will  tell  you  more 
about  it  than  I  can." 

I  was  loath  to  go  ;  but  he  persuad- 
ed me.  His  wife  told  me  the  old  gen- 
tleman spoke  of  me  to  the  last,  and 
had  my  letters  read  out,  and  boasted 
of  my  success. 

"  Did  n't  I  tell  you  he  would  rise  ?  " 
he  used  to  say  ;  and  then,  it  seems,  he 
made  much  of  some  little  presents  I 
had  sent  him  from  Paris,  and  them 
such  trifles  compared  with  what  I  owed 
him  :  "  Does  n't  forget  old  friends, 
now  he  is  at  the  top  of  the  tree  "  ;  and 
then  burst  out  praising  me,  by  all  ac- 
counts. 

So,  then,  it  was  a  little  bit  of  com- 
fort to  think  he  had  died  while  I  was 
prosperous,  and  that  my  disappoint- 
ment had  never  reached  his  warm  and 
feeling  heart. 

A  workman  has  little  time  to  grieve 
outwardly;  he  must  dry  his  eyes 
quickly,  let  his  heart  be  ever  so  sad, 
or  he  '11  look  queer  when  Saturday 
night  comes.  You  can't  make  a  work- 
manlike joint  with  the  tear  in  your 
eye ;  one  half  the  joiners  can't  do  it 
with  their  glasses  on.  And  I  was  a 
workman  once  more  ;  I  had  to  end  as 
I  began. 

I  returned  to  the  violin  trade,  and, 
by  a  very  keen  attention  to  its  mys- 
teries, I  made  progress,  and,  having  a 
foreign  connection,  I  imported  and 
sold  to  English  dealers,  as  well  as 
made,  varnished,  and  doctored  violins. 
But  soon  the  trade,  through  foreign 
competition,  declined  to  a  desperate 
state.  I  did  not  despair,  but,  to  eke 
out,  I  set  my  wife  up  in  a  china  and 
curiosity  shop  in  Wardour  Street,  and 
worked  at  my  own  craft  in  the  back 
parlor.  I  had  no  sooner  done  this 
than  the  writers  all  made  it  their  busi- 
ness to  sneer  at  Wardour  Street,  and 
now  nobody  dares  buy  in  that  street ; 
so,  since  I  began  this  tale,  we  have 


JACK  OF  ALL  TRADES. 


353 


closed  the  shop,  —  it  only  wasted  their 
time,  —  they  are  much  better  out  walk- 
ing, and  getting  fresh  air,  at  least,  for 
their  trouble.  I  attend  sales,  and  nev- 
er lose  a  chance  of  turning  a  penny ; 
at  home  I  make,  and  mend,  and  doc- 
tor fiddles  ;  I  carve  wood  ;  I  clean 
pictures  and  gild  frames  ;  I  cut  out 
fruit  and  flowers  in  leather ;  I  teach 
ladies  and  gentlemen  to  gild  at  so 
much  a  lesson ;  and  by  these  and  a 
score  more  of  little  petty  arts  I  just 
keep  the  pot  boiling. 

I  am,  as  I  have  been  all  my  life,  so- 
ber, watchful,  enterprising,  energetic, 
and  unlucky. 

In  early  life  I  played  for  a  great 
stake,  —  affluence. 

I  think  I  may  say  I  displayed  in  the 
service  of  Djek  some  of  those  qualities 
by  which,  unless  books  are  false,  men 
have  won  campaigns  and  battles,  and 


reaped  fortunes  and  reputations  :  re- 
sult in  my  case,  a  cannon-shot  fired  in 
a  dirty  little  village,  calling  itself  a  city, 
in  a  country  that  Yorkshire  could  eat 
up  and  spit  out  again,  after  all  the 
great  kingdoms  and  repubs.  had  ad- 
mired her  and  forgiven  her  her  one 
defect  —  a  tongue  of  fire  —  a  puff  of 
smoke  —  and  all  the  perils,  labor, 
courage,  and  perseverance  of  eleven 
years  blown  away  like  dust  to  the 
four  winds  of  Heaven. 

I  am  now  playing  for  a  smaller 
stake  ;  but  I  am  now,  as  usual,  play- 
ing my  very  best.  I  am  bending  all 
my  experience  of  work  and  trade,  all 
my  sobriety,  activity,  energy,  and  care, 
all  my  cunning  of  eye  and  hand,  to  ona 
end,  —  not  to  die  in  the  workhouse. 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  workman 
has  said  his  say,  and  I  hope  the  com- 
pany have  been  amused. 


THE  END. 


Cambridge  :  Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


